


Last Line of Defence

by curious_eye



Category: Space Force
Genre: Angst, Fuck Tony is a shit but he's trying, Hurt/Comfort, Kick Grabaston is a bad person, M/M, S01E10, Slow Build, Spoilers, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:40:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 55,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24632452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curious_eye/pseuds/curious_eye
Summary: “Jesus, this is what it comes to,” Naird spoke more to himself, “A guy called Fuck Tony is Space Force’s last line of defence.“Fuck Tony Scarapiducci isn’t one to put his neck on the line when he could just coast through life in first gear. He doesn’t give out favours or owe people when they help him out. So it’s a mystery to him when he's suddenly putting himself between the determined Air Force general, Kick Grabaston and his (at times) insufferable boss.Fuck Tony doesn’t care about anyone but himself. Which is obviously why he's putting himself in harm's way to prevent a war.
Relationships: F. Tony Scarapiducci & Dr. Chan Kaifang, F. Tony Scarapiducci & General Mark R. Naird, F. Tony Scarapiducci/Dr. Chan Kaifang, General Mark R. Naird & Dr. Adrian Mallory
Comments: 253
Kudos: 106





	1. Call to Action

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t really know where this is going but I’ve written enough chapters to want to put it somewhere, I guess??
> 
> Why I like to take the characters who are meant to be the annoying ones on comedy shows and give them depressing backstories is a mystery but this is the latest product of that mystery. Enjoy, I guess? :p
> 
> I know this fandom is currently non-existent so I may be unlikely to find people who also for some reason really ship Tony and Chan but their team-up to find a present for the president made me feel things, alright? :)
> 
> Also I might add some Naird and Mallory relationshippy stuff in later chapters because they are MADE for each other.

The control room was alight with activity despite the fact that the staff had been stripped down to only the most trusted scientists. Tony had been watching the considerably more settled room minutes earlier, having sent off his most recent focus group, splitting his attention between the admittedly impressive sight of astronauts, _real_ astronauts, on the large screens at the front of the room and the notes app on his phone, scrolling between his list of ideas and great ideas. It was difficult to choose which to pitch to Naird the next time the general was actually available for a conversation; he didn’t want to be responsible for the Space Force missing out on some rare, positive attention from POTUS.

In fact, it was General Naird’s appearance, shadowed by Doctor Mallory, that signalled the shift from calm to frantic. The room emptied out within seconds, the man in charge missing Tony in his scan of the room as he directed most people towards the door before turning to face everyone who was left.

“All of you in this room are here because Mallory trusts you,” Naird began. It was impossible for Fuck Tony not to critique his boss’s pep talks, not when he seemed to check every box on the list of ‘what not to do whilst speaking in public’ from every PR course he’d ever taken. “To be honest, I’m still on the fence about some of you but-” Naird’s words had shifted to be directed mainly at Dr. Chan, prompting an interjection from Mallory.

“Mark, perhaps you could continue to berate my second-in-command in your own time, maybe once we solve this international crisis the government appears to have gotten us into,” he suggested, sinking into a vacant chair a couple of rows back and folding his arms.

“Fine, yes, you’re probably right,” Naird conceded, clapping his hands back together and shifting his posture back to ‘general giving a speech’ levels of straightness. “What you are about to witness is a decision that I have not taken lightly. It may threaten your future careers and, as a result, I will understand anyone’s choice to step out and remain uninvolved. However, I believe my only option is to ignore direct orders to attack the Chinese moon-base and, in order to prevent further conflict, to destroy any means of aggression in the possession of our spacemen.” Tony’s head perked up at a mention of ignoring direct orders, choosing to skip the mention of a threat to his career in favour of being present for what was bound to be an interesting few hours as General Naird walked his trademark tightrope of barely handling a situation.

“You mean the guns?” Chan asked, catching on quickly and raising his eyebrows. From the monitors, even the members of the crew who seemed to spend most of their time forgetting they were even on the moon were paying attention.

“I mean the guns, Dr. Chan,” Naird said with a nod, “I imagine you could come up with some creative uses for some of the most important parts? Something that will make them impossible to recover?”

“Springs and bolts are always useful, sir,” the scientist replied, glancing back at Dr. Mallory, “Did we begin constructing the plumbing system?”

“No, I thought the same,” Mallory said, leaning forward on his chair with some insistence, “Might I suggest that we hurry though. I fear we may have ignored external calls for long enough that they can justify sending brute force here to make sure their orders are carried out.” Tony frowned a little at that – Naird was more stoic than normal, his mouth set in an unwavering line of determination, with no room to twitch into amusement or conversely to fear. He wasn’t entirely following the conversation in the room (he never got CC-ed into the important discussions) but there was something in the general’s expression that uncharacteristically concerned him.

“Captain Ali, begin to dismantle the guns,” Naird instructed without a pause, “Collect the springs and bolts together and await further instructions.” There was a short pause as the message was transmitted.

“Yes sir,” she replied confidently before lingering in front of the camera, a question clearly on her mind. “You do know this conversation is being recorded, sir?” If it was possible, Naird’s expression flattened into something even more serious.

“I am aware,” he replied simply. It was the sort of scene that would be recreated in a film one day, one part of Tony’s brain postulated. In one of those movies where the real footage was spliced into the dramatic recreation. Hey, he might even make it onto the silver screen, at least in the background.

“And just to clarify,” Ali’s voice interrupted Tony’s half-musings, “This is every gun we own?”

“Every US gun currently on the moon,” Naird clarified with no uncertainty, “I want all weapons to be stripped down so that they are no longer functional. And you might want to do it quick.” With that he turned to face Dr. Mallory, the two most qualified men in the room sharing another grim look. Tony didn’t expect the attention of Naird to be on him when it suddenly was.

“You better not be live-tweeting this or whatever you spend your time getting paid to do, Scarapiducci,” came the clipped warning despite the fact that Tony’s hand hadn’t even reached for his pocketed phone throughout the entire exchange.

“I’d be streaming the whole thing if I was doing anything,” he replied indignantly, holding his hands up when Naird’s face didn’t break at all, “I’m not, though. I’m just saying-”

“Sir! Unauthorised helicopter landing on the helipad!” Duncan burst through the control room doors, shouting between breaths unnecessarily given the sudden shift of attention towards him but at least saving Tony from the general’s unusually stern scrutiny. He wasn’t prepared to be sent back to a cell until all of this blew over. “Air force, sir!”

“Shit,” Naird cursed, a faltering glance towards Mallory preceding his next instruction, “Delay them, soldier. Keep them out of here as long as possible.” Duncan saluted sharply and turned on his heel, setting off the way he had come urgently. In the time it had taken for the order to be given Mallory had approached Naird, lowering his voice to create some semblance of privacy despite the weighty silence in the room.

“We have to have used the materials in some permanent manner before you are no longer authorised to give orders, Mark,” he murmured, “Or else Kick Grabaston will come in here and immediately make them fix the guns.”

“I know,” Naird replied wearily, sparing a glance towards the glass doors all too frequently, “I just don’t know if we’ll have time. We’re already running low on manpower since we almost emptied the base and Duncan will only be able to keep them stalled for so long.” Even as he spoke, the faint but recognisable shouts of irritation began to reach them. Tony’s eyes darted towards the door, the beginnings of some sense of duty stirring in him. After all, if he was to get a starring role in the film recreation, he’d need an impressive moment of his own. And beyond that, the rest of the room seemed to be actively contributing; from Naird and Mallory running the operation to Chan and the rest of the scientists who had begun directing the astronauts as to how they could make use of the gun remnants. It wasn’t often that Tony felt his contributions were lacking but in the moment, when the room was never truly silent due to the persistent, busy typing on keyboards, he began to feel like a rattling spare part in a fully functional machine.

“Sir,” Tony spoke up, trying not to overthink it and then forcing himself not to lose morale when Naird fixed him with what could only be described as a patiently weary expression. “I’m sure I could get in their way for a little while. It would at least buy you some time.”

“Jesus, this is what it comes to,” Naird spoke more to himself, “A guy called Fuck Tony is Space Force’s last line of defence.”

“Give him some credit,” Mallory offered up drily, “He’s managed to distract you from more important matters countless times since he began working here.” The older man’s tone was hardly flattering but Tony was used to discounting that when searching for compliments in people’s assessments of his character. He’d practically built his career off of learning to filter out the general frustration everyone seemed to harbour around him. Unfortunately, you tended to develop an abrasive personality when expected to constantly compete for attention.

From beyond the doors, it was Duncan’s voice that was suddenly audible, pitched up an octave and far from the usual, not all there tone of voice Tony was more accustomed to hearing from the soldier. It seemed to be this that made Naird’s mind up and he turned to Tony once more, clasping his hands together to drive his point home as insistently as possible.

“I cannot stress this enough,” he emphasised quickly, aware of their rapidly closing window to keep Grabaston away from the control room. “We need all the time we can get. By whatever means necessary. If the general gets here before we can destroy the guns, we could have a world war on our hands.”

“Don’t kill anyone,” Mallory chimed in, his tone making it impossible to tell if he was trying to joke or not. Tony bit his bottom lip thoughtfully and then, for the first and maybe only time in his life, lifted one hand into a genuine salute. There was something indescribably rewarding about Naird’s mirrored action, that stoic line across his face lifting at the edges ever so slightly.

“Don’t look so worried, Adrian. He wouldn’t have it in him,” Tony heard the General say as the glass door closed behind him. Outside, Duncan’s complaints were louder, as were Kick’s. Fuck Tony tightened the knot in his tie to keep his hands occupied and then set off towards the noise, taking the steps in front of him two at a time.


	2. High Ground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the under-qualified crew on the moon dismantle the guns, it’s up to Fuck Tony to stand in the way of a determined General Grabaston.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the angst begins... XD
> 
> Thank you for the lovely comments on the first chapter, I didn’t expect that considering how few of us there seems to be in this little corner of the internet!!

Tony didn’t have to go far to locate the source of the shouting. The extravagant, pillared design of the base for once made itself useful, giving him somewhere to hide and absorb the scene in front of him as the main hub opened into one of the many pointless courtyards. A small number of spacemen, complete in moon-camo uniform, had clearly been close enough to join Duncan in his efforts to hold the collection of Air Force soldiers back but their efforts appeared futile, especially since they were now all being restrained. This at least occupied everyone in green camo, except for General Grabaston himself. Tony had never liked the head of the Air Force; trying to present the war-obsessed man as likeable at all to the general public had always struck him as an almost impossible task. Yes, Naird was totally out of step with modern technology but there were angles to take there – who could hate the older, endearingly out-of-touch general?

“Keep them under control, I’m going to find Naird.” In front of him, Kick ground out his orders around a clenched jaw, heading for the control room and, inevitably, Tony’s hiding place. He noticed that he had managed to crouch a short distance away from a narrower doorway, one that the general would be forced to go through if he wanted to make it to the control room on time. Whether this was a result of some form of military knowledge osmosis from hanging around the general for so long or another instance of fortunate luck was a debate to have at another time. With his eyes mostly glued to his phone screen during most military drills, he hadn’t exactly picked up the best tactics but blocking that opening seemed like his only option.

“I don’t think so,” he stepped out as General Grabaston got close, at least getting the satisfaction of surprising the general with his singsong voice. “I think you’ll find that some real history is going down in the control room right now and it’s kind of my job to document it so I’m going to need you all to sign some NDAs before I let you past.” If there was ever a time to be grateful for his own dysfunctional filter, it was now. He almost impressed himself with the NDA angle, hearing his own words as if they were spoken by someone else and trying to attribute the slightly nervous waver to this imaginary, certainly intelligent man as he leaned as casually as possible in the general’s path.

“Fuck Tony,” Kick scoffed, far less floored by the excuse, “Naird really is sending out the big guns today.” His tone dripped with sarcasm, too much for Tony to block out completely but he set his shoulders back nonetheless, trying to create the illusion of holding the same posture as the military man in front of him. The mindless amusement of the other Air Force soldiers chipped away at his assuredness, forcing him to block out everything in the background except for the man in front of him.

“You’re not getting any further, General,” Tony said evenly, as if speaking the words into existence would make them become true. Kick certainly didn’t seem to agree, laughing dismissively.

“You’re a fool, Scarapiducci, if you think a PR guy can stop the head of the Air Force,” he retorted, taking a deliberate step forwards. Tony planted his feet where he stood, determined not to make the fatal first mistake of being bullied into moving backwards. The thing is, people spent all day calling him a fool without realising that it took some degree of tenacity to get to where he was.

“I’d say I’m making it a little harder than it would have been if your path to the control room was uninterrupted,” he argued back persistently, ignoring the urge in his restless hands to readjust his tie again. He’d dealt with bullies before and General Grabaston was just a bigger, more threatening bully. He was trying not to think about the threatening aspect too much. “Anyway, if I were you I’d turn back around because you and I both know I can make any hopes you have of career progression damn near impossible. Guys like you are always hiding a shady past. Got any skeletons in your closet?”

“I’d watch where you’re going with this,” Kick replied forcibly calmly, the simmering rage in his eyes betraying the anger he was suppressing. “Because if we’re talking short-term, I’m pretty sure I’ve got the upper hand when it comes to ruining lives.”

“Is it really worth it? Naird is de-escalating a situation right now and you want to start a war!” Tony finally gave up on controlling his limbs, throwing his arms up in the air in disbelief. “And you’re willing to ‘use force’ or whatever to make sure that happens. Old people, man! Can’t solve anything without guns.” Another step forwards.

“Let’s see,” came the cool reply, accompanied by another step. “Naird is doing nothing to keep the reputation of America intact. He’s letting China literally walk all over us. I knew I should have been in charge of this branch from the start. We wouldn’t even be in this situation right now.”

“Oh, so it’s just a spot of professional jealousy that’s making you want to start World War Three? It’s reassuring to know you’ve at least got a well thought-out motive,” Tony scoffed, mockingly casual, “If you do this, it’s going to be the last job you ever have.”

“I don’t think POTUS will see it that way,” Kick answered calmly, his point annoyingly accurate, “I thought you wanted to get noticed, Scarapiducci? Here’s your fast track way to presidential recognition.”

“I’d rather play the long game,” Tony bit back, firming up his stance as Kick advanced again. It felt like the base had shrunk away from them, even the restrained soldiers in the backdrop to their conversation fading once more into obscurity.

“Look, Tony,” Grabaston’s tone changed as they stood facing off, Tony’s body blocking the doorway. “A civilian like yourself shouldn’t be getting caught up in all of this. But we both know how this government works and I’m not going to let you stand in the way. When the president wants results, I give them to him.” This warning had some sense of finality to it that sent another nervous twitch through Tony’s clenched fists. Kick took another few steps forward until he was uncomfortably close, the heat of his frustrated exhalations passing across Tony’s face.

“Well, I’m not getting out of your way,” Fuck Tony replied, reminding himself of the stakes before his resolve faltered. As much as it was difficult to be in charge of the social media of a man who acted like things such as Twitter didn’t exist most of the time, Naird had kept him around since the start of the programme. And whilst Tony was generally one to back away from a fight he was bound to lose, he’d been around government officials for long enough to know that something as trivial as a flag being run over could genuinely cause a war.

“Oh Tony,” Kick sighed, lifting his hands and slapping them forcefully down onto his shoulders, relishing in the instinctive flinch he felt. “It’s not a choice. I’m ordering you to stand down.” The setting of their stand-off returned to the foreground with a sudden, vivid intensity even as the soldiers in green and grey khaki watched on in widespread silence.

“Get your hands off him, sir!” Duncan’s admittedly juvenile complaint was ignored as Kick’s hands continued to grip Tony’s shoulders.

“I’m not one of your soldiers,” Tony said, arching one eyebrow. Kick was practically vibrating with pent up frustration, something which, perhaps foolishly, only encouraged his insolence. So maybe he was going to lose this fight and maybe that made him getting involved even more of a bad idea. But there was always a chance he could take long enough to lose that Kick was too late to stop Naird. “You can’t order me to do shit.” The general tilted his head upwards with another exasperated sigh, his gaze travelling back down to hold Tony’s unfaltering stare.

“You’ve been warned enough times.” His voice was quiet, meant only for the man in front of him and not for their witnesses. “More than enough times for me to justify the use of some physical force. You’re messing with the wrong man, Scarapiducci. The only consequence of me having to step over your body to get to Naird would be the slight inconvenience of having to lift my leg a little higher.” He spoke as if this would change Tony’s mind, as if they hadn’t been standing off for long enough for his decision to be set in stone. Tony glanced over his shoulder momentarily, towards the nearby control room.

“I’d say I’ve kept you distracted for long enough,” he replied, turning back to face Kick. This was not the smartest time to gloat, not to the older man who practically glowered with impatience. 

He lowered his arms, relieving the pressure on Tony’s shoulders, although the respite did not last long. Before he could react, a curled fist came up to meet the side of his face, the force of the blow snapping his head to one side as shrill internal alarm bells intermingled with a more distant cry that he fuzzily connected to himself. Even less distinguishable, the final turn to violence seemed to have restarted the scuffle between the soldiers in the background and shouting filled Tony’s ears.

He opened his closed eyes harshly, having steadied himself with a hand on either side of the doorway. His head was ducked towards the floor, a few drops of red appearing on the concrete between blinks. He shook his head, focusing blearily on the small puddle of crimson that resulted from the action and tilted his face towards Kick.

“Not cool,” Tony murmured under his breath, wrinkling his nose at the stinging sensation that infiltrated his senses.

“Get out of my way, Tony,” the general said again, glowering at the other man as he propped himself in the doorway. He seemed far less reluctant to resort to further aggression, flexing his fingers threateningly.

“You really think Naird is going to let you stop him if you get in there?” Tony asked, trying to shake the feeling that his voice was getting weaker, overshadowed by Kick who only seemed to grow in stature. “You know he’s a better man than you’ll ever be. I’m willing to bet you didn’t get to four star general without taking some shortcuts.” Kick bristled once more and Tony felt a surge of confidence numb the pain that flared up every time he moved his face to talk. He repeated himself, taking another risk to keep the other man distracted. “You really think he’s going to let you stop him?”

“Hmm, maybe not, but this might convince him,” the general reached behind him to a concealed holster, withdrawing a sleek black gun. He seemed to delight in Tony’s reaction as blood stormed through his veins, simultaneously boiling and freezing in place.

“You’re not gonna shoot a four star general,” he said with a certainty he didn’t possess. The Air Force general had proved himself to be unhinged and driven by some warped sense of motivation. “You can’t possibly expect not to be imprisoned for that. So, by all means, go ahead but you’ll make my job a hell of a lot easier when I’m trying to get you fired over this.”

“I have it on good authority that POTUS is only looking for desirable results,” Kick responded, stepping back into Fuck Tony’s personal space, the weapon held tauntingly close to his face. “I think a promotion is in the books if I play my cards right. Now please, stop wasting my time.”

Tony closed his eyes momentarily but stayed still, preparing to stand his ground against another attack. There had been a big pile of bolts to be used up and all of this would be for nothing if General Grabaston could salvage even one gun from the leftover parts. His own words flashed around his head; _you’re not gonna shoot a four star general_ ; but the Space Force PR guy? Maybe he’d misjudged the situation.

It was almost a nice surprise when the next thing he felt was his own body being forcibly shoved into the wall to his right rather than the repercussions of a gunshot. The relief was short lived as a dull pain spread through his head, still ringing from the impact of the brick wall. He felt distant for an indeterminate length of time, eventually aware of hands pulling his arms behind his back and of the continued reign of heightened pain as it kept its stranglehold of him. It infiltrated new limbs, pooling in his stomach and across his shoulders, in places he couldn’t even remember being hit.

“You’re gonna be too late. You’re too proud, having to beat up the _PR guy_ just because he pressed your buttons,” he managed to murmur, closing his eyes as the world began to spin and Kick’s hands kept pushing him to walk, relentless and unforgiving. He could feel himself stumbling, tripping over his own feet as they seemed to conspire against him. The tangle of string that currently made up his brain failed to work out why he was still attached to the general, why he hadn’t been left in peace on the floor.

“You two, with me,” Kick ordered over his shoulder to people Tony couldn’t see, “The rest of you, keep them all out here. We’ll see what Naird thinks of my little present for him.”


	3. Ambush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Tony to use as an incentive, General Grabaston (a Mallory-certified buffoon) takes command of the lunar mission.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for being so kind in the last chapter!! I was thinking it might be nice to write some shorter things alongside this so if anyone has a prompt or an idea that they’d like to see I'd be open to taking some suggestions :) 
> 
> Let’s fill this tag up a bit!! ;)

The hive of activity in the control room came to an abrupt end when the glass doors finally opened once more. Naird and Mallory turned from the screen at the front of the room, both trying not to look visibly shocked by the sight they were greeted by. General Grabaston had an arm around Fuck Tony, his grip drifting dangerously close to being a headlock. The latter’s face was stained by more than a couple of trails of drying blood. His hands were pulled behind him and crushed between his own back and Kick’s body, as if he could still somehow pose a physical threat to the Air Force general. As if he’d ever posed a threat that required such an aggressive response.

“Release my man, Kick,” Naird demanded, fighting to keep his voice impassive. He could feel Mallory’s disgust radiating from where he stood beside him, that same frustration he always had about militarising space magnified tenfold. “This has got out of hand. We can settle this matter peacefully.”

“Scarapiducci here says there’s no way you’re giving up command willingly,” Kick ignored his attempts to calm the situation, choosing as always to elevate it. “I would say he put up a fight but this really didn’t take all that much effort.”

“Ah, so that’s why it took you so long to get here,” Mallory found his voice, back to giving his usual biting remarks. Kick’s face flashed with something angry once more, his free hand reaching to the back of his waistband. His mouth twitched at one corner when Naird tensed, too familiar with combat to be naïve about his actions.

“That won’t be necessary,” he said quietly, the frown on everyone else’s faces proving that they’d lost the room. Tony’s next exhalation was shaky, his upper body slumping ever so slightly and forcing Kick to tighten his grip. He sneered at the other man, momentarily forgetting about the gun and the situation on the moon. He’d always liked being able to gloat around Mark Naird.

“I don’t know how you pick them,” he mused, watching the way Tony subconsciously leant his weight on one leg, his head tilted down and away from the general as if he had a chance of hiding in the open room. “I always thought it would be satisfying to knock some sense into this douchebag but honestly, it was his unexpected loyalty towards you that really sealed the deal. I should have seen it coming, the way he trots after you all day just hoping you’ll praise one of his stupid ideas for once.”

“I’m not going to let you start a war over what happened on the moon,” Naird attempted to direct the conversation back to more pressing matters.

“You don’t have the power to stop me,” Grabaston replied slickly, “I have orders to arrest you and take over for myself. Direct orders, Mark. From POTUS.” Naird’s gaze drifted to the ceiling as he ignored the temptation to turn around and ensure the spacemen had successfully neutralised every single gun.

“You’re making a mistake, General,” he said simply, holding his hands up peacefully and still trying to avoid Kick’s stowed gun from making an appearance. His gesture prompted a flurry of arguments from the few scientists Adrian had persuaded him to keep around.

“Sir, you can’t-”

“He’ll start a war!”

“ _Mark_ , you’re really going to let this buffoon make America responsible for the first bloodshed in space?”

Mallory’s was the only complaint to register with Naird, sitting uncomfortably in a knot in his stomach at the thought of the, let’s be honest, _kids_ on the moon taking orders to go into combat. But it was General Grabaston’s voice that reigned over them all.

“Actually, I’m in line to take over this branch and recombine it with the Air Force,” Kick replied with a wolffish smile, “You’re the only one making a mistake here, Naird. And it’s going to cost you your career.” He nodded to one of the soldiers who acted as bookends, framing the only exit to the room.

Mark held his hands out in front of them, barely concealing an eye roll when the young airman attempted to tighten the plastic tie hard enough to elicit a reaction. He tolerated the hand on his arm, leading him to the back of the room, only ready to put up a fight if he was taken away and could no longer keep an eye on the people he needed to be protecting. His eyes landed on Adrian’s back before he was pushed to sit on the floor, watching the scientist draw his shoulders back, the tension there betraying the seething anger that melted into weary agitation. The general had felt his right-hand man practically vibrating as he’d stood at his shoulder, listening to General Grabaston’s gloating. He’d been on edge since Tony had been dragged in there, which was inevitably Kick’s intention, no doubt imagining one of the scientists under his care receiving the same treatment. Naird could only hope he would hold his tongue more than he did on a day to day basis, absorbing the last image of Mallory’s hand patting Doctor Chan’s shoulder absentmindedly as the younger man fidgeted with the arms of his glasses anxiously.

The desk in front of him blocked his view of the rest of the team, except for Tony. The man in question had been propped up against the desk, facing General Naird. One leg was stretched out and he cradled his right arm in his lap. His head had remained slumped, resting on one shoulder and his eyes were closed as his breathing continued to fluctuate from measured to shallow every few minutes.

“Tony? Tony!” Naird glanced around the room from his seat on the floor, wary of raising his voice above a whisper but determined to get some form of acknowledgement from his social media director. 

It was hard to focus on anything else, especially when concentrating on Kick’s newfound command of the room and his total inability to do anything about it only made Naird helplessly frustrated. Occasionally Doctor Mallory’s unfiltered, sarcastic arguments with the other general penetrated Mark’s distracted mind, reassuring him that the team could still hold their own without him to direct them. Still though, he didn’t want Adrian getting arrested as well. He risked another survey of the room, satisfied that there were no eyes on him and shuffled across to sit alongside Tony. He tested the strength of his own restraints for the umpteenth time, unsurprised to find the wrist ties as resistive as before.

Fortunately, being closer allowed him to nudge the other man, finally causing Tony’s eyes to open hazily. He blinked repeatedly, keeping his eyes shuttered for seconds at a time and screwing his face into a frown whenever they were exposed to the brightly lit room.

“ ‘m s’ry, sir,” he finally slurred as his head lifted momentarily and then rolled over to rest on his other shoulder. Naird was concerned by the shallowness of his inhalations and the automatic wince that crossed his face whenever an intake of breath was too sharp.

“Don’t try to talk, Tony. You’ve got enough to focus on with just keeping your eyes open, okay?” Mark wasn’t accustomed to treating the other man with any sort of tenderness, even though managing Tony’s energetic puppy act frequently reminded him of parenting Erin before she became a moody teenager and the challenges shifted to something altogether different.

“He’s got a gun,” Tony said suddenly, eyes shooting open wide and fixing Naird with a panicked expression, “He’s got – got a gun.” Naird hushed him under his breath, resting his tied hands on Tony’s shoulder awkwardly but hoping it provided some comfort.

“I know, it’s going to be fine,” he soothed, examining the man in front of him once more and trying to break down the insurmountable task of putting him back together into manageable stages. His frequent mantra of Kokomo attempted to infiltrate his brain but he pushed the lyrics to one side. There would be time to block the world out from his office once they got everyone safely out of this mess, provided that they didn’t walk straight into another disaster.

“I r’ly tried, sir,” Tony spoke up once more, shaking Naird from his daydreams of a quiet office, lit only by the burning red of another Colorado sunset. “But I’ve n’ver been good at knowing how to win a fight.” 

More questions. Who had he needed to defend himself from? Why did he never learn how to protect himself if he needed to? Did anyone across the entire base have a trouble-free life?

“You did what we needed you to do,” Naird placated him firmly, choosing to file away the new enigmas surrounding Fuck Tony to be addressed when he wasn’t half-awake and stained by his own dried blood.

“I can’t believe you respond to there being a gun in here so calmly,” Tony commented after another long pause. His voice at least sounded slightly strengthened, a hint of his usual disbelief at the general’s military attitude making the observation comfortingly familiar. Naird exhaled a short laugh, his amusement short lived as one of Kick’s soldiers turned to both of them, his eyes narrowing at the general’s new position.

“You really took one for the team, Scarapiducci,” Naird said eventually, once they had been left alone to wait out the take over once more. It was awkward, trying to sound proud of a man he was frequently left dumbfounded by without painting himself out to be even more of an old, tired dad than he already was. One corner of Tony’s mouth flickered upwards in maybe the first display of real accomplishment Naird had ever seen on the other man’s face. But his attempts to remain alert seemed constantly flawed, his eyelids faltering whenever he directed his attention towards breathing less painfully. The general had been out in the field with people who were struggling before; he knew when to push and push until they had no choice but to stay awake but also when to take advantage of a safe moment to let someone rest. 

With the attention of the room as far away from them as it could be, he didn’t see any problem in letting Tony drift away from his haze of pain.


	4. Counter Attack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A failed attempt to attack the Chinese moon base allows Naird to take back control from the Air Force. Chan tries his best to help Tony.

Time had passed which was to be expected but felt miraculous given the sudden deceleration of the clock that Naird could just about read through the glass doors. It had been an hour and a half of slowly getting cramp on the control room floor, listening to Mallory’s insistent complaints get lost more and more behind the false bravado of Kick’s new plan.

Should they have remembered the wrenches? Mark doubted it, given that there would have been few permanent uses for the tools in the design of a makeshift plumbing system that now housed around eight guns worth of bolts and springs.

He tried to enjoy the small successes – how the team on the moon at least seemed to get slightly better when faced with a clear task; the efficiency of the lunar rover that they’d admittedly not managed to test fully before blasting it off into space; the thankful continued no-show of Kick Grabaston’s gun.

All of these paled compared to the ever growing list of disasters that were caused by Grabaston’s forever unwinding plan. Now the team were stranded without a base, having destroyed the only other permanent structure on the moon’s surface. At least they’d foiled the Chinese mission too, Naird thought bitterly as, after all, that was all POTUS would be concerned with. Not the safety of a team of undertrained astronauts, not the cost of the failed mission or the rescue that would now need to be planned, certainly not the manner in which Kick had taken over the control room.

Grabaston finally directed his attention back towards Mark, sneering dismissively in Tony’s direction for a moment, looking nothing less than amused even when faced by the pale media consultant whose mouth was pressed harshly into a thin, trembling line. He’d been hovering in and out of awareness, settling in this halfway state of being almost unresponsive but evidently in pain.

“This is your mess to clear up, Naird,” Kick said, nodding towards the screen at the front of the room, still emblazoned with the stranded team, surrounded by the debris of the first lunar base. Mark stood up, reluctant to leave Tony on his own but feeling his own discomfort at being physically below Kick overriding that warped sense of loyalty to someone who had only ever served as an irritating distraction from his stressful day job.

“Running away now you’ve made everything worse?” He rebuked, shaking his head. He had to pass Grabaston to return to his position at the helm, pausing in front of the other man and drawing himself up to full height as he tried to ignore the plastic ties that continued to cut into his wrists. “This didn’t quite work out as the promotion you thought you were in line for, huh?”

The Air Force general stepped away, approaching the glass doors and nodding to his soldiers who lined the back wall. His gaze returned to Tony once more and then back to Naird.

“I wouldn’t be so confident, Naird,” he responded sharply, “You and I know who would come out on top if POTUS had to choose. Even if you think you have something to use against me, I don’t expect our president will be too concerned by anything that happened here today. And then there’s always pride to be taken into account, eh, Scarapiducci?” The reinforced toe cap of Grabaston’s boot nudged the arm that Tony had been cradling protectively, the arm that Naird had instantly withdrawn from when the slightest, investigative touch prompted such an adverse reaction. Evidently, the deliberate pressure Kick applied had the desired effect, Tony’s eyes closing as he pulled his legs tighter against his arm, pillowing it in the folds of his body as he groaned under his breath.

“I know you think this branch of the military is a joke, Kick. And I know you think the work we are doing here is a joke as well,” Naird spoke deliberately, willing the general’s attention to be redirected. “And you may dislike me but I don’t think for one second that you are stupid enough to discredit me as an adversary. So listen to me and know that if you come back here on unauthorised business and it results in a single member of my base ending up with even a paper cut I will not stop until you are fired and guaranteed to never work again.”

“Oh, Mark,” Kick exclaimed patronisingly, although he did step away from Tony and towards the door, “I do like it when you try to threaten me. A piece of advice: it works better if you’ve managed to gain the respect of the person you’re trying to influence.” He turned to leave and Naird bit his tongue, not so desperate to have the last word that he would risk keeping the room in such a state of elevated panic for any longer.

“Chan, it may not be your expertise but perhaps you can attend to Fuck Tony’s injuries whilst we recall the medical staff and everyone else who was sent off base when this mess first started,” Mallory instructed, his measured voice the first to shatter the silence that was left behind after the door closed. 

“Right, yes,” Mark’s stiff posture was shattered as he pivoted on the spot, seeking out Doctor Mallory and exhaling a slow breath as the other man cut the ties around his wrists with scissors that seemed to have materialised from nothing. “Back to damage control, I suppose.” Adrian lifted both arms in a loose shrug, his frown following Doctor Chan’s path towards Tony and then refocusing on the people on the moon, stranded without shelter.

“One thing at a time, Mark, one thing at a time.”

“Hey, Tony?” Chan crouched on the floor alongside the other man, intentionally angling himself away from the slowly reanimating scientists who filled the rest of the room. He didn’t want to get distracted, drawn in by the problems he felt he could solve as he was faced with one altogether more difficult.

“At least you’re some sort of doctor.” Tony’s response was faint, barely escaping his mouth as if he was performing some ventriloquist’s act. Simultaneously, he was about as active as the slumped figure of one of those creepy puppets who weren’t being weirdly animated by a performer. Chan tried to concentrate, quickly overwhelmed by the observations that were easy to make. First off, Tony’s arm with its clenched fist, white knuckled as the skin stretched thinly and his nails dug deep crescents into his palms. Then there was the dried blood staining the skin beneath his nose, smaller flecks painting an irregular pattern across the rest of his face. This only helped to highlight his pallid complexion and the waxy, unhealthy sheen that overtook his forehead.

“I tend to deal with plants, mostly,” Chan eventually said, pleased and slightly surprised to see a faint grin break through the clouds of Tony’s mostly withdrawn expression. It was nothing more than a peek of the sun behind a blanket of grey but, like on a stormy day, the brief respite of warmth was more than welcome. “So, I don’t know what I’m doing. I guess, what hurts? That’s a good place to start, right?”

“It isn’t helpful if I say everything, is it?” Tony answered, tilting his head against the desk behind him. Chan imagined he was trying to joke although the tightly drawn wince that infiltrated every muscle in his face with that slight movement suggested that the comment was grounded in reality.

“I’d say it was a suitably dramatic reaction for you,” he offered up, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose self-consciously and then reaching out to – do something that looked vaguely professional. Examine the arm, maybe. Or feel for a pulse – although that wouldn’t add to the information he already had.

“It’s my arm, mostly,” Tony ground out eventually, his jaw tight, “Up around the shoulder. And my stomach doesn’t feel great.”

“Like, sick?” Chan withdrew his hands slightly, nose scrunching up unavoidably.

“Like, I got punched several times,” Tony responded, just about managing to sound like he was teasing. Chan felt a twitch of a smile disrupt his usually impassive demeanour and shook his head, overcoming whatever hesitation was stopping him and beginning to examine Tony’s shoulder. 

He tried to detach the ever rippling contours on Tony’s face from his own actions, unsettled by the idea that he was causing any amount of pain for the man in front of him. Even if he wasn’t that sort of doctor, first do no harm had always seemed a sensible moral to be driven by. Deducing that there was some sort of dislocation of the joint was not exactly encouraging given his complete inability to treat the injury, never mind the unhappiness that settled in the pit of his stomach when that ailment only joined a growing list of other problems he had no immediate solution for.

“I’m going to loosen your tie a bit,” he said eventually, falling back on the old technique of looking busy whilst having no idea what to do next that had seen him through his earlier years as a junior researcher. After all, not all head scientists saw through bullshit quite like Dr. Adrian Mallory. “It might make it a little easier to breathe.” Again, not massively accurate seeing as the likely cause of Tony’s difficulties was the patchwork of bruises already forming beneath his shirt.

Upon receiving no dissent from Tony, Chan untied the immaculate knot in the striped fabric, stilling slightly when the other man’s mouth twitched.

“I usually save undressing for the second date,” he murmured eventually, his lips barely parting to let the words out as they tripped over one another, far from his usual eloquence. Chan was momentarily grateful of Tony's still closed eyes if only so he didn’t store the flustered expression he would have been met with for later mockery.

“You have a funny idea of what constitutes a date,” he retorted lightly, pulling Tony’s tie from around his neck entirely but stopping short of unfastening the top button of his shirt, already imagining the comments this would provoke with a wry smile. His expression slipped when Tony shifted against the desk, letting out an involuntary hiss as his shoulder jarred at the movement. He was surprised to find his hands twitching, fingers flexing towards the other man as if hoping to provide some comfort. “Hey, you alright?”

“I can’t believe this is how I get repaid for the birthday gift we sent,” Tony remarked instead of answering. His lighter tone was a complete juxtaposition to his face, pale once more and pinched with a new layer of upset.

“Just remember, it’ll be us who’ll be laughing in several billion years time,” Chan replied, encouraged when Tony’s expression morphed into something more cheerful and his eyes slipped open, holding Chan’s gaze.

“Gas giant, huh?” Tony remembered, still blinking slowly at Chan. His expression held some of the sincerity that had been there the first time they’d had this conversation; when he’d suddenly seemed desperate for someone to acknowledge his efforts. _We did good, right?_

“I can’t believe you remember that and yet you also thought we were in a room full of people wearing invisibility cloaks,” Chan joked, rolling his eyes and pushing the conflicting feelings that had resurfaced to one side.

“ _I_ can’t believe you lied to me about that, man,” Tony complained, far more animated now that he had a reason to argue, “Do you have any idea how hard it is to make Space Force sound exciting when all of the sci-fi stuff people really want to see is ‘scientifically impossible’? Being able to tweet about an invisibility cloak would have made my day.”

“Well, I’m sorry to have been the bearer of such bad news,” Chan replied, glancing over his shoulder to see the medical team finally arriving, “On the bright side, your care will soon no longer be in the hands of a totally incompetent plant scientist.” Tony’s head craned to see over Chan’s shoulder, his expression quickly recovering from an almost unnoticeable falter.

“Considering you only really half-undressed me, I imagine you haven’t caused too many complications,” he retorted, his tone missing the mark slightly although Chan wasn’t sure if there was any other justification for that beyond a fresh wave of pain.

“I took your tie off,” he said, rolling his eyes again as he rocked back on his heels, ready to rejoin the efforts to save the crew on the moon. “If I was you I’d give the medical team less shit because, you know, they’re way more qualified than me to actually hurt you.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” Tony smiled very slightly, tilting his head against the desk once more and watching Chan move. “Thanks.” Chan returned his expression, knowing that the gratitude was framed as being for his joking advice and not for whatever distraction he’d managed to provide despite the continued appreciation on Tony’s face suggesting the latter far more.

“No problem,” he continued to follow the flow of the conversation, staying at that surface level where there didn’t need to be anything other than jokes that masked real comments. He couldn’t help but duck down for a moment though. “You did good, Tony.”


	5. Smoke Screen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chan is tired and, if it wasn’t already in hibernation, the logical part of his brain might question the things he chooses to say.

Working a problem as big as the one they were currently facing had at least required enough brainpower to keep Chan’s mind off of Tony for the extra few hours he was needed for in the control room. He got the sense that he wasn’t alone in this predicament, with Naird’s attention drifting in and out whenever Doctor Mallory got more than a minute into a complicated, scientific idea. In all honesty, having more of a grip on what the lead scientist actually meant did little to keep Chan's focus appropriately directed, especially when the thing competing for his attention was the slightly despondent expression on Tony’s face when Chan had been called away. He didn’t know why he was caught up on it, besides the obvious reasoning that it had provoked a complex, emotional reaction, but the distraction wasn’t useful so he tried to quash it with a good hour of concentrated work.

Finally, when even Doctor Mallory was stifling regular yawns into his elbow, Naird decided to call it a day. There was a new shift of scientists to supervise the half-hearted repairs taking place on the moon and they had at least established that the rocket itself could keep the crew protected for long enough to buy them some more time to actually solve the problem. It was a case of patching up the gaping hole rather than putting in a neat row of stitches which was always frustrating but had become customary since Space Force was established. At least it never got boring, what with the constant edge-of-seat state of every single mission they were involved in.

But even faced with the option of driving straight home and collapsing into an eight hour minimum coma, Chan found his exhausted legs carrying him in the opposite direction of the car park. He occupied himself with obsessively checking the two IDs that were in his pocket so he didn’t have to question the destination he sub-consciously had in mind.

The medical bay was empty except for Tony, who sat on the edge of the bed closest to the door. He was completely still, except for his gently swinging legs and constantly darting eyes that danced across the reams of medical equipment and finally landed on Chan who had hesitated at the door, fingers firmly wrapped around the identification cards.

“Your ID fell out your pocket,” Chan said, stepping inside and fumbling with the two cards in his pocket, at first drawing out his own and then presenting Tony with the correct one. “I thought you’d probably be needing it.”

“I don’t know,” Tony said, spinning the card in his hands as his tone shifted to something humorous but definitely defensive as if he felt he needed to prove he was fine, “When you’re a little higher up you’ll realise that some doors open without a card with your face on.”

“Uh huh,” Chan replied, easily modulating his voice to sound unimpressed, “Let me know when you get there. I’d love to see what doors open for the PR guy.”

“Social media consultant,” the other man corrected belligerently. His eyes were fixed on the card in his hand, his head ducked and affording Chan a view of at least two bruises that had begun to form down the side of his face. His arm had been set in a sling, the sleeve of his shirt rolled up above his elbow as a bandage came down to his wrist.

“D’you need a ride?” Chan offered, his mouth moving before he had a chance to clarify with the rest of his brain that it was a good idea. It was at least out of the blue enough for Tony's eyes to flicker back up to meet his own, blinking rapidly as his eyebrows drew together in a frown.

“Really?” He asked slowly, drawing out the syllable as if he could delay a negative answer. Chan nodded, shrugging as if this would lessen the notability of his offer.

“I mean, I’m leaving the base and you’re not going to be driving any time soon,” he reasoned logically. As long as it was grounded in some sort of logic, the offer wasn’t so ridiculous after all. 

“Thanks, man,” Tony said eventually, that small smile from earlier replacing his usual smirk of superiority or impatient indifference. “You don’t have to if it’s too much hassle. One of the doctors was going to try and-”

“It’s no hassle,” Chan interjected, trying to save them from endlessly continuing this round of awkwardness, “I am kinda shattered though so the offer’s only standing for like, the next ten seconds.” Tony was pushing himself off the narrow bed almost before Chan finished talking, slipping his card into a back pocket and retrieving his suit jacket from the hanger to one side.

Chan found himself filling the silence of their walk with idle conversation, lapsing into old habits of over-explaining whatever scientific work came to mind which he had relied on in his years of studying, when the prospect of having a social life made him nervous. 

Fuck Tony was a difficult man to judge. Even though they were walking more slowly to compensate for the limp he was trying to conceal, even though he would try to even out the creases that formed on his face whenever he tensed his arm, despite all of this he seemed to slip back into the version of himself that tended to rub people the wrong way. And when he scoffed a little and called Chan a nerd he was using that tone of voice he used on the other scientists; it didn’t feel like the gentle, tending towards friendly teasing from before. Chan buried this doubt, reminding himself that it had been a long day and if anyone had a free pass to say whatever they wanted it was probably Tony. 

But then they reached the car park and it was hard not to react to Tony’s comment as they headed for Chan’s small, second-hand car.

“Wow, I haven’t seen one of these piles of metal since I was a kid,” he remarked, “Where did you find it? Museum or scrapyard?”

Maybe it was the exhaustion or maybe it was the frustration Chan had felt growing all evening, building up a pressure that he would have aimed at General Grabaston if he wasn’t the second-in-command at the Space Force science division and very much hoping to keep his job. Maybe it was the complicated tangle of feelings that had been dragged up by seeing Tony hurt, Tony defensive, Tony vulnerable – the feelings that short-circuited his head just by _seeing Tony_.

“You can be a real asshole, you know?” Chan stopped a few steps away from the car, willing his face not to look as hurt as he was sure the sensation of his furrowed brow suggested. Tony’s front teeth appeared, biting his bottom lip as he too froze, blinking owlishly at Chan. The silence was weighty and his posture remorseful (unless Chan was just lying to himself and seeing things that weren’t there), making it feel like an arguably terrible attempt at an apology, the words hanging between them. But they were both tired and Chan could accept getting out of this situation feeling nothing more than a little disappointed – it was easier than the aforementioned web of confusion that stretched to every edge of his brain.

Tony followed cautiously when Chan headed for the passenger door, holding it open and tilting his head towards the seat. The injured man lowered himself into the car slowly, simultaneously looking as if he was trying to move faster, to get whatever awkward scenario they’d created for themselves over and done with. Chan moved to close the door, barely managing to stop himself when Tony’s uninjured arm shot out of the car to prevent him from moving away.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, looking down at his lap and then up at Chan. His arm lingered still in the open door and when he spoke again it was nothing more than a murmur. “I didn’t - didn’t mean it. The nerd thing. I actually – I like it when you talk about science-y stuff, it’s interesting.” He tucked his arm back into the car fixing his gaze through the windscreen, his shoulders leaking tension once Chan shut the door. He spent the walk around to the driver’s seat trying to pull his eyebrows back down to earth, playing those words over in his head on a loop and finding sub-text despite his whole being trying to reject the hypothesis.

“Have you got any family nearby?” Chan asked after they had spent the drive through the dirt tracks of the base and onto the main road in silence. Tony’s eyes shifted from the road and over to Chan momentarily.

“Family?” He echoed slowly, “Err, no. I moved out here for the job.” Chan nodded fairly; he didn’t know anyone who hadn’t.

“Friends live nearby?” He asked again, starting to feel like they were on a collision course with a situation that the surely sadistic part of his brain wanted to put him through. Ever since they’d worked together for a day trying to find a present for the president, Chan had occasionally become preoccupied with thoughts of the other man but they were easy to brush under a carpet when his day-to-day job rarely forced them to even see each other in passing. It was hard to ignore the things that had come flooding back with an unexpected intensity over the short few hours since all of this had started.

“Not exactly,” Tony replied after a moment, looking briefly rueful and then hesitant. “I tend to rub people up the wrong way.” Again, an unspoken tension seemed to evaporate when Chan responded with a dry laugh.

“Maybe, if you wanted, you could stay with me for a bit,” he offered, truly confirming that he was willing to torture himself, “I have a spare bedroom and it’s just that, well, you’re not going to be able to drive for what?”

“Six weeks, probably,” Tony murmured, briefly interjecting before Chan continued.

“Six weeks, exactly. It’s just that, I’d probably be giving you a lift anyway so, seeing as you don’t really live nearby, it might be easier if-”

“Really?” Tony interrupted, watching Chan nod hesitantly. He glanced away once more, chewing his lip absentmindedly. “Why?”

“Because it would make things easier, for both of us,” Chan repeated, paraphrasing his previous point. He didn’t need to add to the torture by saying that he wanted to help, that he looked at Tony and saw someone who hadn’t relied on other people for too long. He’d convinced himself that was the tired haze in his brain talking and nothing more.

“No, I mean, _why_? You think – _everyone_ thinks I’m an asshole. Why would you help?” Chan took advantage of the stop sign in front of them and looked over at the passenger seat.

“Because you apologised,” he said as if it was obvious, “And anyway, it feels like you’re trying.”

“I am,” Tony jumped in, a shadow of his usual, energetic self returning, “I do. Try, I mean. It’s not an excuse but my parents and my whole family tend to say whatever they think. How do you think I started getting called Fuck Tony?”

“You know, weirdly I’d never questioned it,” Chan realised, feeling the beginnings of a smile form on his face when Tony exhaled a short laugh. The other man looked over at him again, his face back to that earnest, eager to please expression.

“I’d really appreciate the help,” he admitted honestly. Chan glanced at the sunset on the horizon and wrinkled up his nose thoughtfully.

“You got enough energy to stop by your place and pack a bag?” He asked by way of a reply. Tony was suddenly grinning again, nodding his head.

“I’ve not had a sleepover for years,” he announced, the tone of his voice back to that quick humour setting that it tended to stay in for an entire day of work. Chan laughed in response, mostly just trying to quash the mocking voice in his own head that reminded him of this new situation. It wasn’t like much could happen in six weeks, right?


	6. Misfire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mark and Tony have a routine. Every morning is the same... until Monday comes around. Doctor Mallory tries to smooth things over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit longer than normal. I wanted to split it in half but the two scenes were too short so I just lumped both together into one big chapter. 
> 
> Also the dynamic between Naird and Mallory just lends itself to some sort of relationship so that might be happening on the side, who knows XD

There was a rhythm to General Naird’s weekdays. He would return to his office after visiting the gym, his arm protesting if a heavier day of weights coincided with a busy morning on base that required him to salute endlessly at passing soldiers. He’d already have been ambushed by Mallory first thing that morning and, if he was particularly unlucky, may find the lead scientist loitering suspiciously close to the gym without stooping so low as to actually follow Naird in there himself.

But after addressing all of that, he’d breeze past Brad and be met with Fuck Tony, sat in one of the two chairs facing his desk as if he owned the entire room. Brad’s apology that he’d been told not to say anything would be lost beneath the announcement that the ‘daily tweet’ was ready for review. There was at least an easy reliability to Tony’s routine, a rhythm that Naird maybe took for granted.

It had been a long weekend of working from home where possible and then driving to the base when he really couldn’t justify staying away. Friday had been eventful enough to make Mark long for a quiet break for a couple of days, spending some time with Erin and trying to forget he even had a job. Unfortunately, the universe didn’t work like that, not when there was a crisis unfolding in front of him. 

“Fuck Tony’s here to see you,” Brad’s voice interrupted Mark’s walk to the large office doors. He paused mid-stride, pivoting himself to face the other man, a frown ready on his face.

“What?”

“Fuck Tony, in your office,” Brad repeated helpfully before trailing off with a frown of his own, “Like he is everyday?”

“Yes, I know,” Mark emphasised impatiently. “But you never tell me that.” He sensed that he was losing Brad, watching as the other man fixed his patented, customer-service expression.

“Well, he normally asks me not to let you know he’s arrived,” he explained, suddenly looking wary, “It’s more threatening actually; he likes to pretend he’s going to steal all of the guests’ sweets if I don’t keep quiet. Well, I don’t know he’s pretending because, of course, I haven’t taken that risk. Not yet anyw-”

The door to the office shut behind Naird, cutting off Brad’s ramblings and trapping both the general and Tony in the slightly extravagant room. The state of his media consultant had been vying for his attention all weekend, particularly in the few moments when he wasn’t needed for anything else and his mind turned naturally to the list of other issues. The man before him had slotted himself in, right at the top of that endless stream of problems. He glanced around as the door clicked shut, trademark smile falling short of his eyes and dulled somewhat by the collage of browns and blues that patterned his face, not to mention the sling that kept him from opening both arms wide as he often did, to make out that his appearance in Naird’s office was at all surprising.

“Morning, sir,” he chimed, at least keeping something about their morning meeting predicable. Naird kicked himself into action and moved to sit back in his chair, long since giving up on pointedly mentioning the existence of his waiting area. “I’ve got your daily tweet for you to check and it must be your lucky day because there’s a couple of things for you to sign off on about outreach!” It felt wrong, not addressing any of it. He at least deserved some sort of acknowledgment for helping to keep Kick away for as long as possible, right? Even if the gratitude made him insufferable in the long run – he had always been a little insufferable anyway.

“Your arm,” Naird summarised his rambling thoughts concisely and, admittedly, in entirely the wrong light. Although it was hard not to concentrate on it. Tony glanced down at his sling as if he’d forgotten it was there, professional smile faltering when he looked back up.

“Still got two of them,” he replied, the joke falling weakly between them as Naird clasped his hands together and sighed slowly.

“I was hoping you had a bit of time this morning for us to discuss what happened on Friday,” he said more officially, kicking himself into a higher gear of performance as a responsible general. “Despite your position, you are technically a civilian and getting caught up in a military issue like that normally calls for some sort of debrief.”

“Oh, between you and me I don’t think that’s gonna be necessary,” Tony’s tone was back to breezy, undercut by a subtle desperation that was normal angled towards getting the attention on him rather than far away.

“It wasn’t a suggestion,” Naird replied, still fighting to be the authoritative role in the room. “Even if you don’t want the full procedure we need to discuss your – tendency to share this sort of thing with people.” He found himself wincing at the clunkiness of that reasoning, once again managing to insult the man he was trying to placate. It seemed to have the undesirable effect of wiping the upbeat expression that Tony had been in the process of reinstating and replacing it with something more disappointed.

“What was it he said?” Tony asked carefully, his eyes now looking anywhere but Mark as he modulated his voice into a weak impression of Grabaston. “ _There’s always pride to be taken into account, Scarapiducci_. With all due respect, sir, why would I be sharing the information that I got beaten up by an Air Force general without managing to land a single hit of my own?”

“I think the fact you’re back at work within two days of it happening is worth a bit of pride, Tony,” Naird suggested carefully, still aware of the unhappy expression that clouded the other man’s face. “He was right about some of the other things though. I have it on good authority that my position here is only secure for the moment because we’re in too much of a mess to justify a complete change of personnel.”

“Your point being?” Tony prompted tiredly.

“If I lose my job right now, there is a high probability that anyone I work closely with will go as well. We need to be smart about how we use information. Information like the fact General Grabaston deemed it necessary to do this to you. Information that we don’t want getting out until an appropriate time.” In hindsight, i.e. as soon as he said it, Naird decided there had maybe been better times to effectively discuss using Tony as a bargaining chip.

“Yeah,” Tony nodded along, his tone dripping with sarcasm, “Information like how he decided to kick me, unprovoked, in the shoulder that was already dislocated and which happened to be attached to the wrist that he had crushed against a wall? And how, at the time, I was sat on the floor and I couldn’t move and I posed literally no threat to him? Like I ever even posed a threat.”

“Tony,” Naird interjected, trying to manage the other man’s rising volume.

“Don’t worry about it, sir. I’m hardly going to put up with all that and then just ruin our chances of using it to _your_ advantage.” He stood up and headed for the door, his gait slowing him down but only just.

“Tony,” Naird repeated again placatingly, “Tony!” Fuck Tony turned his head, fixing Naird with a decidedly blank stare. The general wanted to ensure he was able to look after himself given his injuries, or that he felt as safe as he could on the base. He settled for something easier. “You said we needed to discuss outreach stuff?”

“I can send it in an email,” Tony retorted, propping the door open with one foot as he looked back again cuttingly, “You know how to work one of those, right?” Without waiting for a response, he headed out the door and passed by Brad’s desk, who looked thoroughly confused at the turn of events, raising his voice to continue. “I’m sure Brad can teach you the basics if you get stuck!”

Not for the first time in the last two days, General Naird covered his face with his hands and exhaled tiredly. If there was anything he could have done to make that conversation even worse, he wasn’t sure he even wanted to hear it. As he glanced up, Brad’s wide-eyed, uncertain expression disappeared in the narrowing aperture of the doorway. The door clicked shut and Naird was left with the thought that there was only a small number of people who knew what had happened, a small number of people he needed to trust. He could do without subtracting one from that total before Monday was even over.

Fortunately there were enough situations happening around the base to keep him on his feet for the rest of the morning, seeming to always be needed in the furthest building as soon as he arrived to put a different fire out. A quick visit to the control room before lunch at least showed that the moon disaster was being handled. Adrian looked over his shoulder from his conversation with Doctor Chan and, seeming to take pity on what Mark imagined was complete resignation on his face, instantly proposed that their meeting was held over lunch.

“Chan and Fuck Tony.” Doctor Mallory’s voice refocused General Naird’s attention on his as yet untouched meal as the noise of the mess hall returned in an assault on his senses. He hummed questioningly at the mention of two usually unconnected names, glancing up from his intact sandwich and following Adrian’s gaze over the back of his shoulder. The two men in question were sat at the end of a table, Chan talking animatedly for some time and seeming satisfied by the response he got out of Tony, however small.

“What about them?” Naird feigned disinterest and turned back to his food, letting his stomach dictate his next move. He was looking forward to the next time he didn’t have a hundred problems on his mind so that food could taste of something rather than being a distraction he was forced to endure for the purposes of recovering energy.

“An unlikely pair,” Mallory replied simply, his eyes twinkling behind the lenses of his glasses as they usually did when he attempted to engage the general in frivolous gossip, a topic which he claimed to share Naird’s total disdain for. “Chan tells me Tony is staying with him on a temporary basis.”

“Fuck Tony is staying at Doctor Chan's house?” Naird echoed disbelievingly, unwittingly spearing himself on the bait of Mallory’s well aimed hook. He dully registered the slight reassurance he felt now that he knew someone was at least managing to make sure Tony looked after himself, still surprising himself with how much he cared about someone he had reluctantly hired out of a batch of frankly awful candidates.

“It’s probably for the best,” Adrian had continued, reaching for a chip from Naird’s plate absentmindedly and looking accomplished when the other man was too distracted to notice. “After all, I imagine _you_ have thoroughly managed to burn all bridges with Fuck Tony since your surprisingly competent performance on Friday.”

“What makes you say that?” Naird asked defensively, regretting it when Adrian’s mouth opened almost instantly to respond.

“You are rather predictable, Mark. Kind of like a weather forecast but, well, easier to get right,” he said, his kind tone let down by the gentle glint of mockery in his eyes, “What tends to happen is that you perform well and then destroy that good work by making a mistake. Or vice versa, of course. Sometimes you do manage to rescue an absolute shit-show out of nowhere…”

“Alright,” Naird stopped him exasperatedly, “We may have had a rather heated discussion in my office this morning which culminated in our daily meeting taking place almost exclusively via email.” Mallory’s eyebrows raised and he reached for another chip, the corner of his mouth twitching when a more alert hand swatted him away.

“I can’t imagine Fuck Tony’s demeanour translated into text form,” he commented drily.

“Strangely formal,” Naird clarified, pressing his mouth into a thin line and nodding slowly, “Although that was likely a direct consequence of said heated discussion.”

“And this argument-”

“Heated discussion, Adrian.”

“This argument,” Adrian persisted, “Did you manage to enquire after your employee’s wellbeing before voices were raised?”

“Admittedly, I may have approached the subject a little tactlessly,” Naird said sheepishly, “He’s a difficult man to communicate with, Adrian. I mean, who would have thought he’d put up with Doctor Chan outside of work hours and _then_ choose to spend his lunch break with the man?”

“I imagine everyone is difficult to communicate with when you’re a four star general who hasn’t been taught diplomacy or drilled in holding polite conversation,” Mallory retorted, deadpan, “And Doctor Chan often contributes to stimulating conversation. Incidentally, we were discussing the need for funding on that project concerning the effects of zero gravity on mouse organs which may further our understanding of the consequences of long haul space travel.”

“Now is not the time for an argument over finances, Doctor,” Naird interrupted, fixing a scolding expression, “It’s not very _diplomatic_ of you to change the subject so crassly.” Adrian’s mouth twitched once more towards a thoughtful smile.

“My mistake,” he replied gravely, not sounding at all apologetic, “I didn’t think you’d want to discuss your plan to smooth things over with Tony.” Naird rolled his eyes, aiming a series of muttered, choice words at his dwindling lunch. “What was that?”

“Should I not be focusing on the stranded group of astronauts on the moon?” He argued back weakly, “Or the continued pressure to produce results from this failing branch of the military? Or trying to prove that the budget we were given is being put to good use and not being squandered on a satellite that lasted all but six hours before being disabled by external forces?” His defensively inflated chest slumped along with his posture and he picked at the remains of his lunch with poorly concealed frustration.

“You have a lot on your plate at the moment, Mark,” Adrian reasoned fairly. “I was merely offering a problem that was perhaps less of an uphill battle to fix. Not to mention that many of your other solutions may rely on your ability to be in the same room as Tony without one or both of you feeling uncomfortable when you have to work together. You may have been a soldier but I’m sure you can empathise with his need for some support. It seemed to come far easier for you on Friday.”

“We were in the middle of a difficult situation on Friday,” Mark explained tiredly, unwilling to dwell on the events of that day for too long, “It’s – well, it’s easier to concentrate when guns are getting fired over your head or the odd bomb is exploding.” He trailed off from completing the analogy, blocking out the reminder that Grabaston had indeed been armed and that maybe they hadn’t been too far off from this hypothetical situation.

“I’ll remember that if I ever decide my science department is slacking,” Adrian commented drily before fixing Mark with an atypically patient look. “Just talk to him about it. Your current position is unsustainable and, for all his flaws, we can’t afford to lose Tony right now. You’ve said it yourself; we’re being scrutinised at the moment and I imagine any opportunity to plant someone whose allegiances are skewed away from our own will be taken.” Naird couldn’t really imagine running Space Force without the irritating reliability of listening to Fuck Tony explain another joke aimed at millennials every morning. Maybe the routine of the military had rubbed off on him a little too much.

“I know,” he replied eventually, “I’ll try and fix it this afternoon.”


	7. Win Without Fighting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> General Naird tries again. As per Doctor Chan's suggestions, Tony tries to listen.

“Fuck Tony’s in the waiting area, sir,” Brad’s voice greeted Naird when he picked up the phone on his desk. This was already the wrong sort of Tony he wanted to be talking to; this new, careful Tony overwriting the enthusiastic, admittedly boundary-blind man who had come before. Who would have guessed that the first person to use the seats would be the man who had looked at them on his first day and been in hysterics over the need for there to be six chairs and a magazine rack outside of the general’s office.

“Send him in,” Naird instructed almost reluctantly, moving the stack of papers on his desk to one side and waiting for the door to open, trapping the two of them in what was bound to be an uncomfortable conversation.

“I thought we dealt with everything this morning, sir,” Tony got in before he even sat down, eager to hover at the door as if he could picture a scenario in which he left in under thirty seconds. Naird nodded to one of the chairs on the other side of the desk, waving him into the room and letting the door click shut before he said anything.

“This morning,” he started carefully, “I may have emphasised the wrong points when we discussed what happened.” Tony’s eyes were wandering around the room as he listened, the constant, almost imperceptible movement of his upper body betraying the fact that one of his knees was bouncing up and down under the table.

“I get it,” he said eventually when the silence made it apparent that he needed to interject.

“No. Look, I can imagine that this is difficult; coming back to work after what happened and the fact that reporting General Grabaston is unlikely to be effective.” Naird tried to recall what else Mallory had suggested, feeling as if he had exhausted sympathy already and not knowing where to turn.

“I overreacted this morning,” Tony admitted, to Naird’s surprise. Both the context of his admission and the revelation that Fuck Tony of all people was capable of registering his own melodrama were unexpected for the general, sending the conversation down a path he hadn’t prepared for.

“I don’t think-”

“Can I explain myself?” Tony interjected more firmly, placated when Naird nodded silently. “It was just that – Grabaston could have got past me and just left me there. I’d maybe have got away with a bruise or two. But he did all of this and then dragged me into the control room to use that against you. And then this morning, I already knew what you said was true, but hearing it was… it feels like I’m just something that it being used for different people’s benefits.”

“I hadn’t thought of it in that context,” Naird cleared his throat gruffly, forcing himself to meet the other man's eyes. “I hope you know that I would never want to make you feel the way General Grabaston did on Friday. Whilst there is an argument to be made that what happened could be used against Kick at some point, I would hope that you also understand why it would be a bad idea for you to pursue this personally right now. I wouldn’t be able to guarantee your job security, I wouldn’t even be able to say that you’d walk away without a fabricated reputation that tarnished your career forever.”

“I know,” Tony replied, gesturing around him with one arm, “Kinda why I’m still here.”

“You deserve more praise than you’re likely going to get,” Naird remarked, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice, “If you hadn’t got in his way for as long as you did, our spacemen would have gone in with more than wrenches.”

“I really didn’t do that much,” Tony said, scratching his neck as his expression strayed far closer to embarrassed than ever before. Mark wanted to interrupt and disagree but there was something in the other man’s tone that suggested they may get somewhere if he let him keep talking. Somewhere close to explaining some of the things he’d said on the control room floor, perhaps. “I don’t think standing in a doorway and getting beaten up is particularly admirable.”

“Even if you didn’t back down?” Naird argued back fairly, wrinkling his nose when Tony shrugged. His gaze was back to wandering around the room although something in the quality of his stare suggested he was seeing something else entirely.

“Where I’m from, and I’m pretty sure this isn’t an exclusive thing, there’s nothing impressive about getting kicked to a pulp by the school bully,” he said eventually. It sounded like he’d said that line before; as if other people were trying to convince him that he’d done something worth being proud of and he kept rejecting their point. What General Naird didn’t know was that this conversation had taken place as Tony and Chan ate lunch.

“There’s nothing impressive about getting kicked to a pulp by the school bully,” Tony argued back insistently, stopping short of positing that surely Chan had been bullied at school, knowing that this would lead to a questioning eyebrow raise and one of those uncomfortable half-arguments. There was something here, sitting on the table between them although it might as well have been invisible considering that neither mentioned it. But it existed, growing in those strangely comfortable silences and splitting into two when they went their separate ways, continuing to pester each of them separately. Tony wasn’t going to ruin anything else with his impulsive remarks.

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Chan replied patiently, lining his knife up over a stack of something dangerously full of lactose and deliberating carefully over a perfectly parallel cut. He paused this activity to look at Tony more insistently. “You know, the best way to win sometimes is to not fight? People like Naird probably don’t get that but you’re not a soldier.” Tony snorted at the thought.

“Becoming a soldier isn’t the only way to get that idea in your head,” he said a moment later, twisting the fork in his hand and delivering the words directly onto his plate. “I told you how my family tends to speak their mind, yeah?”

“Mmhmm,” Chan replied, his focus solely on Tony, cutlery discarded momentarily on his plate.

“So, my dad wanted me to be this sporty, popular guy at school which I just wasn’t,” Tony said, his voice quiet but just about reaching Chan above the background hum of other conversations in the canteen. “I never really learnt not to say the first thing I thought so I was always getting into trouble with the other kids. It’s like I said, I’m not easy to get on with, so people didn’t really bother. And whenever I got into a fight over it, I’d lose and the only thing my dad cared about was the fact that I didn’t defend myself.”

“I think my parents would have forced me into some sort of self-defence class if that kept happening to me,” Chan said drily, rolling his eyes dismissively and then looking thoughtful, “I think they’d care more about whether I was alright though.”

“My family isn’t big on feelings,” Tony replied as if this was a reasonable explanation.

“Like, as a concept, or-” Chan trailed off, half questioningly but mostly teasing. Tony’s mouth twitched mutinously as he attempted to frown.

“We just didn’t talk about it,” he said in the end, returning to his food as if they weren’t in the middle of an odd version of a heart to heart. Chan still ignored his own food, teetering on the edge of a full-blown psychological analysis of all of this and pondering the response it would get. Tony glanced up in the midst of his contemplation, blinking slowly and then waving his fork at the scientist. “Go on, you’re dying to share some conclusions.”

“It seems pretty simple,” Chan answered honestly, “When you got beaten up at school no one asked if you were okay and only offered you one solution – fight them back. Now you’ve got beaten up here and people are saying you did an honourable thing or whatever. But you’ve been taught that the only way to do well in a fight is to come out on top; physically, I mean.”

“I guess,” Tony replied slowly.

“The thing is, Tony, Naird isn’t thinking like that. You’re one of his team, even if you’re not a space man. Loyalty means something to soldiers,” Chan emphasised, “And yeah, he’s an emotionally repressed general so he probably fucked up this morning but if you’d waited it out a bit he’d probably have got to the awkward, hope you’re alright speech. And if he isn’t planning on giving you that talk any time soon then he’s the one in the wrong and we’ll do something about it ourselves.” He trailed off, immediately returning to his food, allowing his brain to conjure up images of Tony’s expression because he certainly wasn’t looking up to see it.

So he didn’t see the slow shift into understanding. Or the flicker of a smile that Tony would have fiercely asserted was not there. Luckily for Tony, some things are invisible so Chan wouldn’t have seen the swooping of the other man’s stomach when he’d said _we_ , when he’d acted like it wasn’t just Tony dealing with everything on his own.

General Naird got the edited highlights. It was enough to form a sketchy outline of Tony’s upbringing, all of it as isolated as he’d imagined when he managed to see past the suits and unfiltered comments.

“Well, this has gone better than I expected,” he said aloud, directing Tony’s attention back towards him as he reached the door, their conversation reaching a natural end. Upon feeling his eyes back on the desk, Naird glanced up. “Sorry, that sounded antagonistic. It wasn’t that I thought you’d be unreasonable-” He was starting to think that Doctor Mallory had a point with his whole ‘easier than a weather forecast’ hypothesis.

“I thought it through,” Tony explained, the hint of a grin forming on his face, “Then I got real pissed off at lunch about it and Doctor Chan explained what was really going on. That was it – he told me what to say and I wanted to look clever. The revelations about earlier? All him.” He left the room, slapping the door almost cheerfully on his way out and leaving Brad’s muffled complaint over losing another guest sweet in his wake.

Naird continued to look at the door, thinking over what the other man had said. Chan and Fuck Tony doing anything together felt like a stretch of his imagination, although Adrian had once claimed he had all the creativity of a defunded arts program at high school. All of this meant he didn’t believe for long that his brain had just conjured up the reappearance of Tony.

“Just wanted to say,” the younger man chipped in, back to his habit of never knocking, a fact that made Naird paradoxically pleased. “Even though it was Chan who said that stuff, I did agree with it and everything. So, we’re good right?”

“We’re good,” Naird agreed, feeling his tightly pressed lips pulling up into a smile that Tony seemed more than satisfied by.


	8. Counter-Offensive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two weeks have passed and, just when things seem to have returned to normal, there’s another problem to contend with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I seem to have caught up with myself so updates might stop being as regular as they have been. On a positive note I forced myself to actually figure out the plot of this today (it took me long enough XD ) and boy are we in for a ride! I’m worried it could get a little complicated but that is entirely my own fault for getting carried away :p
> 
> Side note: enjoy me trying to make stuff up about computers in this chapter, it’s probably very inaccurate :)

Chan made a note of the sample in front of him. Last check, two weeks ago. Friday, two weeks ago. He tried not to be superstitious but that plant was imprinted on his memory as being the last one he checked before going to his shift in the control room the day everything had changed.

A lot of his day to day existence on the base felt like a distraction from bigger issues, even if on the surface everything seemed the same. He was still plucking at petals and leaves and pollen samples with the same pair of tweezers, still monitoring the same factors in their development. Life went on around them, a large percentage of the base population remaining ignorant of what had happened.

Tony told people he’d had an accident, over embellishing the story at every chance he got. No one questioned it because it was Fuck Tony talking. Inconsistencies were put down to his tendency to over exaggerate, a reputation that finally seemed to have come in handy. But even as he settled into this role, Chan found it harder and harder not to see through the mirage that it was. He was quieter at Chan’s house and jumpy no matter where they were. Patching things up with Naird had helped their relationship but not Tony’s relationship with the base itself. Chan sensed the other man felt uneasy, although he’d never go as far as to admit it.

With everything going back to a supposed normal, Chan got most of his information from Doctor Mallory, fed back to him in between conversations about his research. Naird seemed momentarily satisfied that Grabaston had heeded his warning. There had been no dramatic announcements from the president. Things seemed like they were slowly getting back to normal.

Chan leaned in closer to one of the plant’s leaves, brushing over a small pattern of black dots that seemed to have developed and squinting over his glasses at them. The next time he looked up, a face had appeared between the unruly plant’s rapidly growing leaves, causing him to jump back, a hand pressed against his chest.

“Not cool,” he complained, carefully placing the tweezers in line with the other equipment having deposited the latest pollen sample in a Petri dish. He let Tony laugh to himself triumphantly, wiping his hands on his lab coat and glancing at the nearest clock. With someone else to drive around, he’d quickly realised his habit of staying late would have to change. As a consequence, it seemed his ability to keep track of the time still needed to catch up to the new arrangement. “I suppose you’re here because I should have come looking for you half an hour ago.”

“I thought you might have invented man-eating plants or something so I came to check you were still here,” Tony said, managing to pull off an earnestness worthy of some sort of acting award. That didn’t hide the mental translation Chan made almost instantly: _I thought you might have left without me_. They were definitely spending too much time together which had improved his Fuck Tony to English translator but didn’t seem to have reassured the other man that Chan wasn’t going to start forgetting they were temporarily living together.

“The man-eating plants are still germinating,” Chan replied casually, grinning when Tony’s hand pulled away from the small pots of seedlings he’d been investigating. Chan wandered over to stand next to them. “These ones aren’t hungry for flesh yet.” Tony frowned, eyes shifting around as if he was calculating the chances of this being true.

“Not cool,” he said eventually, still keeping his hands to himself.

“How was your day?” Chan asked, draping his lab coat over a nearby chair and patting his pockets to check for his ID. He moved over to his desk, carefully ordering the files and notebooks before stacking them into his bag. Meanwhile, Tony had slumped into a seat and sighed dramatically.

“I finally understand what it’s like to be General Naird,” he lamented, shuddering to himself, “Do you know how long it takes to do anything when you have to type with one hand?” He mimed in the air, jabbing his index finger sluggishly and rolling his eyes. “So slow.”

“You’ll get used to it,” Chan swung the strap of his bag over one shoulder and gestured Tony out of the room, switching the lights off on their way out. “You can train your wrong hand to be almost as competent as your dominant hand at various things in a few months. Typing one handed will be simpler than that. I’m sure you’ve already improved over the last couple of weeks.”

“I bet you used to be one of those people who tried to become ambidextrous,” Tony commented, his voice still settled in that lightly teasing region that made it hard to reconcile the person he sometimes was at work with the one he became around Chan.

“I may have spent two to three months writing out the alphabet illegibly every night when I was a kid,” Chan replied, smiling reluctantly at Tony's gleeful expression. “Until I realised there were more productive things I could be doing.”

“Like learning space botany?” Tony suggested knowingly. Chan chuckled at the thought of his younger self choosing to study a textbook before bed.

“Not quite, at the age of thirteen,” he said, holding his hands out helplessly when this caused another of Tony’s amused outbursts.

“It’s so much better that you were thirteen,” he celebrated, far more cheerful than he had been at lunch.

“Hey! At least I wasn’t, like, twenty or something,” Chan argued back, clearly conjuring up an image that was far more entertaining, judging from Tony’s gleeful laugh. “By that age I _was_ learning space botany in my spare time though so I suppose I lose either way.”

“I’m telling you, Mark, this was inevitable,” Doctor Mallory’s voice came ringing down the deserted hallway, “So many space men were transferred from Air Force. He’s got people lining up to report back to him!” The two men appeared from around the corner, the general’s expression morphing from the frown he’d fitted in preparation to reply to the scientist to something too close to relief for Chan’s liking.

“Ah, good, you haven’t left yet,” he said, glancing between the two of them and momentarily losing his train of thought as a look of bemusement crossed his face. “Come on, with us.” Tony fell into line behind the two older men without questioning it, clearly used to having Naird call him off in one direction or another. Chan, on the other hand, tended to stay in the lab.

“Sir, what’s going on? Doctor Mallory?” He followed alongside Tony, getting further away from the alluring call of home and a lighthearted argument about what to have for dinner followed by another tussle for the TV remote. Just two weeks in, the routine they had fallen into suited him just fine.

“There’s been a suspected breach of space force security,” Adrian said, sounding too calm for the contents of his response. Tony tensed up slightly next to Chan, visibly relaxing himself when he saw the other man looking.

“We think Grabaston is trying to cover his tracks,” Naird said, barely throwing a glance over his shoulder as he spoke. Chan threw another sidelong glance in Tony’s direction, surprised to meet the other man’s eyes and sense him looking for some comfort.

“He’s here?” He asked carefully, the betrayal of nerves in his voice finally getting the general’s attention. He paused in the hallway, forcing the rest of them to stop and turned around, earnestly looking at Tony.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly, “But I do know he’d be a fool if he tried something like he did before again.” Tony seemed surprised by the sincerity in his voice, almost intimidated by the force of his gaze.

“Come on, the source of the breach was in the secondary control room,” Doctor Mallory spoke up, driving Naird back into action and only ending up a few steps behind because he paused to rest his hand on Tony’s arm, lowering his voice unusually kindly. “No one would expect you to do anything like what you did before.”

Chan trailed after Tony as he was falling back behind the general. The enigma around him only seemed to grow at times; the fact that it was Mallory’s assertion that placated him the most was odd. Then again, he seemed to be held up almost entirely by the scaffolding of other people’s expectations. He was what people said he was. Maybe now, the pressure was off.

“There.” The next time anyone spoke, it was General Naird’s terse, monosyllabic warning. The control room was dark except for the artificial light of a single computer screen, its blue hue swallowed quickly by the gloom of the rest of the room. With Space Force still in its infancy, they were yet to require two functional control rooms so this one remained mostly unused with the exception, it seemed, of their intruder.

“Be _careful_ , Mark,” Adrian stressed, not quite betraying worry but certainly straying closer to concern than Chan was accustomed to. Naird seemed preoccupied, eyes scanning the surrounding atrium with a narrowed suspicion. Adrian seemed dissatisfied with his lack of response. “I mean it. Don’t do anything stupid.”

“The general, doing something stupid? What could you possibly mean?” Tony muttered quietly, making Chan’s frown slip ever so slightly. He looked pleased when he noticed this, happy to have done something to calm Chan’s nerves whilst simultaneously slipping behind that façade of sarcasm to act as his own defence.

“They’re alone,” Naird observed, finally snapping out of his surveillance mode. He glanced at Tony briefly before addressing all three of them. “It’s not Kick.”

“How do you know?” Tony asked instantly, beating the other two to the million dollar question.

“I’ve stood behind him for years,” Naird replied, wrinkling his nose as he turned his attention back to their view of the intruder behind the glass. “I’d know that back anywhere.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Doctor Mallory interjected disbelievingly, only allowing the silence to remain untouched for a second. The general was back to being selectively deaf, holding one hand up, fingers splayed – stop. Then curling his fingers forward – go. Adrian snorted, eyeing both Chan and Tony. “I believe that means we’re meant to follow.” There was no discussion between the two older men of back-up, that conversation clearly having been concluded long before any evidence of an intruder; they didn’t know who they could rely on anymore.

The figure turned around swiftly as the door swung open, already looking too comfortable to have been caught in the middle of something untoward. In fact, as Chan reached behind him to flick the light switch, Major Baxter’s face was illuminated, highlighting his smug smirk.

“Too late,” Naird swore under his breath, throwing a sidelong glance at Mallory, face twitching as he fixed a mask of authority and raised his voice sharply. “Explain yourself, Baxter!”

“I was talking to some of my guys over at the Air Force, from before I was transferred here,” the other man replied, barely faltering under the general’s stern gaze and going as far as to shift his attention beyond him, to Tony. “They said there was a bit of footage worth watching from two weeks ago. I wondered what was going on when most of the base got evacuated with no explanation and it turns out we missed a real show.”

Tony was a statue next to Chan, his jaw visibly clenched as he stared, unblinking, at Baxter. Chan was used to seeing him worn down, tired and beaten but not angry. His chest deflated with a measured exhalation, noticeable enough for Mallory’s hand to reach back slightly, an almost invisible instruction to stay put. So much for the other man’s disdain for hand signals.

“It’s a shame really,” Baxter had continued, unaware of the reaction he was getting. “A real shame that no one else is going to get to watch it.”

“Stand up,” Naird barked, the sudden order shattering the tense silence that had settled in the room. “Step away from the computer, soldier!” If Baxter was fazed by this order he didn’t show it, moving almost lazily away from the desk and allowing Naird’s approaching path to direct him away to the other side of the room. Mark glanced over his shoulder, instantly calm. “Chan, assess the damage.”

Doctor Chan headed immediately for the computer, feeling Tony follow behind him, sinking into the adjacent seat yet saying nothing. Chan forced himself to concentrate on the task at hand, any spare capacity of his brain trying to judge if this was a case of self-preservation or protective behaviour from Tony. Either outcome left a lump in his throat; the tentative displays of trust that Tony displayed, probably without realising it, were slowly beginning to build up.

“All of the cameras from a fortnight ago have been looped,” he said slowly, punctuating his observations with short stints of typing or a click of the mouse, “Replaying the empty screens from just before everything kicked off or, in the case of the control room, using some old footage from a few days before that, I think.”

“Can we recover what has been replaced?” Doctor Mallory asked, likely knowing the answer already or at least managing to deduce it from the growing smirk on Baxter’s face. He mustered the decency to drop the expression when Naird glowered at him briefly although even his most expressionless state was arguably smug.

“All trace of it has been wiped,” Chan said, rubbing his forehead and sighing frustratedly. He reached down beneath the desk, feeling intuitively for the USB that protruded from one of the ports. Holding it up, he heard Mallory’s similar reaction.

“They probably used a program to ensure the data couldn’t be recovered,” he explained in answer to Mark’s perplexed expression.

“We’re not protected from that sort of attack?” Tony spoke up, seeming to have a handle on whatever it was that had finally pushed him towards anger. His question was a perfect verbal representation of the general’s raised eyebrows.

“Hacking technology moves fast,” Chan muttered distractedly, still focused on the screen and beginning to look troubled. “It’s hard to keep up with new developments. Expensive, too.”

“We’re a branch of the U.S. military!” Naird replied incredulously, “If we don’t have that protection, who does?”

“Anyone with our budget who values security over another rocket to launch into space every year,” Adrian retorted, his attention also tending more towards Chan’s continued investigation of the computer.

“I expect your resignation,” Naird told Baxter meanwhile, his voice low, dangerous. “My desk, tomorrow morning,”

“That won’t be necessary,” Baxter said back, “You’ll be getting notice of my transfer back to Air Force. Now, can I go?” Mark bristled but seemed to see little value in labouring his argument.

“You’re on the wrong side of this, Major,” he said, the authoritative façade dropping for long enough to appeal to the other man’s human decency. “People are getting caught up in all of this who don’t deserve the consequences. Think about that before you blindly follow a man like Kick Grabaston.”

“Sir? There’s something else here,” Chan reported as Baxter took his leave, the fact that he appeared thoroughly unconvinced by Naird’s response lost on the general. Some people weren’t worth the effort. “An encrypted video link was sent from this computer a couple of minutes before we arrived.”

“Anything on the recipient?” Mallory asked, another question that had a likely answer.

“Nothing cast-iron but the email address was external,” Chan said, his tone indicating the obvious.

“Grabaston,” Tony exhaled slowly, spinning in his seat to meet Naird’s gaze. “He’s got the only copy of the footage.”

“It’s not the end of the world,” Mark said evenly, the tentative reassurance from their brief exchange in the corridor present in his voice yet again. “This means he’s worried; he’s trying to cover his tracks. We can think of something else to prove what happened.”

“I can’t believe he just walked in here and did that.” Chan sat back in his chair disbelievingly. “Right in front of us.”

“General Grabaston has a great deal of influence, Chan,” Mallory replied simply, “And a number of allies within the base. We’re fighting an uphill battle.”

“One we’re not going to win tonight,” Naird interrupted wryly, “If there’s nothing else to be gained from examining the computer further I suggest we regroup after the weekend and consider our options.” He had often sounded weary in his short stint as Space Force general, what with his fair share of disastrous missions, but there was a resignation now that he was clearly trying hard to cover up.

“Come on,” Chan dropped his voice a little, nudging Tony’s arm to get his attention. He blinked and looked over, having been absorbed in some distracted preoccupation. Chan thought he looked tired, although there was something behind his eyes that hadn’t been there before. Maybe it was the fatigue talking, making him hopeful for any solution, but he swore he saw an idea form behind the other man’s irises. There’d be time to mull that over another time. “Let’s go home.”


	9. Pincer Movement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony is quiet. Chan intervenes. They both make a move.

Their drive had been filled with long silences, ended by Chan’s occasional remarks and restarted by Tony’s non-committal responses. Eventually the scientist gave up, occupying himself with attempting to solve their latest problem but finding the conundrum far less stimulating than a maths question that would at least have a solid answer for him to check at the end of his contemplation.

It was concerning that Kick would make a move now, having had two weeks to do something about the CCTV footage. Equally concerning was the advantage he was potentially giving up; after all the very recording he had taken showed General Naird directly disobeying orders. Maybe if that footage had remained intact on the Space Force base he’d have a case for the general’s dismissal but if anyone analysed the film now, they’d see a normal day on the base. So what had he figured out that they didn’t know?

Chan’s attention returned to Tony after dinner, his awareness of the little tells in the other man’s behaviour heightened from their earlier exchanged glances. Prior to the events of that evening Tony had been undeniably more comfortable opening up around Chan but never so blatantly. He’d never gone as far to seek the other man out in the hopes of finding reassurance in the answering gaze. Chan didn’t like the ease with which he lapsed back into his old, closed off tendencies.

“You’re quiet,” Chan muttered eventually, looking embarrassed that he was even mentioning it. But he had Tony’s attention and felt a need to justify the fact he’d brought it up. “It’s very out of character.”

“I can be quiet,” Tony retorted, the corners of his mouth flickering before he sighed and shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t feel – safe, I guess. I feel so paranoid on the base, especially on my own, and now this has happened…”

“General Naird knows what he’s doing,” Chan reassured, trying to muster that confidence that Naird seemed to pick out of thin air. He didn’t know how the older man did it but it clearly worked on Tony. “It’s like he said, no one is going to hurt you like that again.”

“He can’t promise that,” Tony said flatly, sounding reluctant as if he thought he was shattering Chan’s unquestioned belief in Naird’s abilities. It wasn’t as if that hadn’t crossed Chan’s mind already but the consequences of something like that being true were best not to think about. “Grabaston has too much influence with POTUS. Naird’s just – Space Force. Or the tiny proportion of it that we can trust: me, you, Mallory, the small number of people deemed to be 100% on our side from that Friday.”

“And you _need_ to trust us,” Chan interjected, too close to desperate to pretend he wasn’t pleading with the other man. “I know that’s hard but what other option do you have?” Tony pushed himself up from his chair and walked backwards and forwards, his inactivity making him twitchy.

“That’s the point, isn’t it?” He said eventually, throwing his fully mobile arm up in the air helplessly, “If I quit my job, Naird thinks Grabaston’ll make sure I never work again. If I stay, I have to spend every day looking over my shoulder. Why does he care so much about me?! I didn’t – I wasn’t trying to do anything!” Chan stood up, feeling his joints protest a long day’s work. He moved to intercept Tony’s path, wary of his unsteadiness and the pain he was surely starting to feel in his leg after their longer than normal day.

“The way he sees it, you stopped him from doing the one thing he’s wanted to do since day one of Space Force; combine it with the Air Force. If he’d got to the control room on time and everything had gone well, he’d have what he wanted and Naird, who he’s been in competition with for most of their careers, would have gone down spectacularly. You stood in the way of something he thought would be easy to achieve. And you’re not a soldier. People like him care about that. You showed him up.”

“I wanted to do the right thing,” Tony murmured, not feeling the need to gesticulate frustratedly when Chan was so close. “That’s all.”

“You did do the right thing,” Chan asserted, still imploring the other man to listen and not just to hear and immediately discount. “Other people would have chosen the easier option. You didn’t.”

“So why do I feel like I’m getting punished for it?” Tony asked quietly, his gaze holding a gentle heat that Chan felt entirely unprepared for. This was a man who seemed reluctant to trust anyone, putting his faith in what Chan had to say.

“Because things don’t work the way they should,” he replied, finding his hand moving to hold Tony’s arm of its own accord, “Because doing the right thing involves making difficult decisions and difficult decisions are always divisive. But you helped to save people’s lives; that must be worth something to you!”

“I guess I just can’t see an end to this that works out well,” Tony said, a flicker crossing his eyes as he came to that realisation, “We’re going to lose our jobs. But it’s only going to happen when Kick Grabaston says so.” Again, Chan had tried not to think like that, even if it had crossed his mind. That was becoming a habit; burying the difficult revelations under the soil of his work. And to think he’d been pleased to think things were starting to return to what they used to be.

“Maybe,” he conceded, shrugging, “But that doesn’t mean you’re going to get hurt again.” He closed his eyes, inhaling a long breath to give himself a chance to back out. “I’m not going to let that happen.” 

“How are you going to stop them?” Tony asked, a ghost of a smile giving him away. Chan watched his eyes drift down to where his arm was still cupped by a tentative but steady hand, showing no signs of discomfort.

“Set the flesh eating plants on them?” Chan offered up hopefully, mirroring Tony’s growing smile. The other man exhaled a laugh, his eyes trapping Chan’s in a zoetrope; fear flickering to nerves to hesitance to conviction and back again.

“Nerd,” he murmured fondly, biting his lower lip as Chan rolled his eyes. The scientist was caught up on that decision he saw getting made in Tony’s eyes. The burning intention made his heart beat fast, reminiscent of all those times recently where he’d been scared for Tony’s safety but played it off as general fear. He could feel those occurrences breathing down his neck, demanding his attention; a picture book of surreal images he’d never expected to see, never mind feel so strongly about.

“I want all of this to go away,” he whispered, as if there was a chance Tony could be standing far enough away not to hear him. Then he remembered the brief flood of confidence in Tony’s eyes and rallied himself. It didn’t take being a soldier to show some courage. “I want you to be okay.”

“You’ve done so much for me over the last couple of weeks,” Tony replied, matching his volume. His hand flexed at his side, in conflict with itself over taking action. “No one’s ever put up with me for this long.”

“Maybe it doesn’t feel like I have to _put up_ with you,” Chan said, daring himself to meet Tony at this halfway point of almost addressing that _something_ that hovered between them. “Maybe this is just – what I want.”

“I think, maybe this is just what I want too,” Tony echoed, somehow managing to sound teasing and genuine at the same time. Chan opened his mouth to be smart when Tony’s hand stopped him in his tracks, hooking the loose strand of hair that was always falling in his face and brushing it to one side. Chan thought of the first time they’d had a proper conversation, just the two of them; of how Tony had been an intriguing contrast of bold and totally out of his depth; how he’d absentmindedly swept that strand of hair behind Chan’s ear.

This time his hand had lingered, hovering an inch from Chan’s head as if the distance was insurmountable. Chan held his gaze, forcing himself not to fidget with his hands.

“Everything will work out in the end,” he promised quietly, “We’re in this together.” The softening of Tony’s eyes was all the encouragement he needed to take a small step forwards, letting his hands find the material of Tony’s jacket as he pulled the taller man closer. Tony’s hand closed that last gap as their mouths met, sweeping his thumb over his cheek. Chan let the fading scent of the other man’s aftershave drown everything else out, losing the ability to process the minutiae of the room around them when Tony’s fingers were combing lightly through the strands of hair at the side of his face.

“You so almost quoted high school musical,” Tony said as he pulled away, a suddenly gleeful grin filling Chan’s line of sight. They were still close, Tony’s hand radiating a reliable heat that warmed Chan’s face.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he lied, his smirk matching the size of Tony’s disbelief. “I’ve never even watched that film.”

“That doesn’t work on me anymore, I can tell when you’re lying!” Chan grinned at Tony’s outrage, craning his neck a little to absorb the other man's expression entirely but unwilling to put any distance between the two of them in order to see him more easily. He also had the misfortune of being close enough to fully appreciate the fatigue written across Tony’s face, feeling some frustrating sense of duty to cut things short and persuade the other man to stop and rest for a moment.

“I think we could both use an early night,” he said, rolling his eyes when Tony’s face contorted into an exaggeratedly suggestive expression. He swatted at his arm. “Not what I meant. Save it for the second date, Scarapiducci.” Tony’s expression relaxed into something genuine, radiating a contentment that Chan wanted to chase until it was a permanent fixture.

“I have a bit of work that I didn’t get a chance to finish,” he said, forcing his words out quickly before Chan could argue back, “But I will be done pretty quickly.”

“Fair enough,” Chan replied reluctantly, lifting his arms surreptitiously, ready to abort the advance if Tony seemed reluctant. Not that he needed to worry; Tony shuffled into his embrace willingly, dropping his head onto one shoulder and causing his breath to tickle the skin behind Chan’s ear. Tony’s weight spread across his shoulders as he seemed to melt against the shorter man with a calm sigh.

“Thank you,” he whispered swiftly, pressing a kiss against Chan’s forehead as he pulled away and then returning to a normal volume as Chan yawned. “You’re in danger of looking hypocritical if you don’t get yourself off to bed, sleepy head.” Chan’s mouth pulled upwards at the corners in response to his overly chastising tone.

“Don’t stay up too late,” he retorted, beginning to retreat to his bedroom and stopping briefly at the doorway to watch the other man settle back in his chair, laptop slowly coming to life.

Tony’s eyes followed his departure from the room, his smile going with him as a quiet determination took over. He didn’t have too much time to get started on his new project if he wanted to get that early night that he definitely needed but those years of researching people for a living were sure to pay off.

They needed something to use against General Grabaston and Tony was far too used to reading into people’s expressions not to have picked up on the defensive reaction to one of his questions. It had only been meant to rile up the other man, to keep him distracted, but now he had to hope that Grabaston had maybe let slip more than he’d imagined.

_Got any skeletons in your closet?_


	10. Tactics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony gets the answer to some questions. Mark does not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to another edition of me writing about things I don’t understand. This time: the way the US armed forces works. Do I have a clue? Not really. Have I just made stuff up? Yep.
> 
> If anyone happens to know what they’re talking about a bit more and I’ve written something completely ridiculous please feel free to let me know XD

Tony stayed up for an extra hour that evening, switching his computer off with one resounding conclusion – Grabaston’s history was sketchy to say the least, with too much speculation from people who used to know him who were surprised to see where he’d got to. Too much for there not to be _something_ wrong.

His progress was slow for a fortnight, interspersed with minor breakthroughs and false leads. He was envious of the spies who had access to those databases of private information, at least if that was what things were like in real life. If not, he’d turn his jealousy on the fictional characters instead.

Chan wasn’t stupid and seemed to catch on quickly that he was doing something. And yet there seemed to be sufficient reason for him not to accuse Tony of hiding his work. Maybe he thought Tony was doing something to work through his own demons which had lingered for four weeks now. No doubt he imagined it would all come out eventually, when Tony was ready. Tony felt guilty, unable to shake the belief that he was taking advantage of the other man’s trust.

It was on a Sunday that the pieces began to fall into place. 

Day thirty.

He’d been determined not to keep track, not to let that day have so much influence on his life. He didn’t want it to be ‘day zero’ or whatever anyone who was around at the time called the intersection between BC and AD. Back then, Tony was sure it had just been another day and no one paid that much attention; he wondered why he couldn’t do the same in his own situation.

But anyway, day thirty.

Five years earlier, Kick Grabaston had been hovering below the upper echelons of the US armed forces, still not making the sort of impression that would earn him the title of Four-Star General. Then, following his return from a stint in Kosovo, just two months later he was appointed as head of the Air Force.

Tony had dived deep into google to find any hint of controversy but then, twelve pages deep into reading article after article about a man he’d happily never see or hear about again, a blog post surfaced.

Tommy Scott was in Kosovo with General Grabaston. The public story claimed that Kick was forced to take command of the group when their superior officer was shot, acting above his role and getting the rest of the soldiers out alive. Had the operation not been one to consider keeping quiet, he might have been more loudly celebrated.

By all reports Grabaston saved Scott’s life. By Scott’s account, the only thing Kick Grabaston was responsible for was shooting down the superior officer. He said he’d witnessed it happen, that they’d been spread out and under attack, that Kick had taken advantage of the distraction and aimed his gun at someone ostensibly on his side. Tommy said he was the only one who saw – everyone else believed the general had performed beyond his duties. It was the distinction he needed to become a blip on the right people’s radars. That was basic media presence theory. Tony might not have understood the ins and outs of military operations but getting someone noticed was far more up his street and Kick Grabaston’s play was textbook.

It was Sunday morning when he found it, sat at Chan’s kitchen table and poring over the single source that could finally give them the edge. He tried not to get too excited, sending an email to the contact page of Tommy’s website, under an alias because he wanted to be safe. And maybe it made him feel even more like some sort of secret agent.

He shut his laptop when the sound of Chan’s socked feet drew near, smiling upwards at the other man as he squinted tiredly through his glasses and rested his chin on Tony’s head. Having the weight draped over him was a calming distraction; even as his heart thudded at the prospect of his latest findings, he finally felt like he could breathe.

* * *

“You seem happy,” Chan stated as they walked into the base on Monday. He sounded cheerful to be making such an observation, making the lightness in Tony’s step increase further. He hadn’t quite shaken the guilt of keeping something to himself, especially now that they didn’t seem to do that over anything else.

“I feel - good,” he replied, bumping Chan’s arm with his elbow. His shoulder almost never hurt anymore and the Space Force medical team who continued to discretely perform the check-ups he should probably be at a hospital for seemed confident that the sling would no longer be necessary in another week. He was glad, his now significantly less crushed fingers eager to return him to full typing speed.

“I’ll see you for lunch, I guess,” Chan said at the door to the lab. He smiled, more reserved than he was at home; but then they both had character changes that took place at work. Tony nodded, returning his expression and then heading for General Naird’s office.

“Morning, sir!”

“Brad is there for a reason,” Naird replied without looking up. They had settled back into their usual routine. “Please make him feel like he has something important to do.”

With the exception of the footage going missing, it was very much business as usual on the base. Tony was glad that the incident with Major Baxter rarely came up in conversation anymore; there was something about seeing what had happened getting erased almost entirely that didn’t sit right with him. Occasionally Naird would dance around the subject, either trying to awkwardly provide some comfort or just to give an update. Maybe he thought Tony would believe he’d stopped trying to fix things if he didn’t mention it. Tony agreed that maybe he would start believing that.

“Fine, I don’t get it but we really need to move on.” Tony snorted at Mark’s reaction to his tweet of the day, eyes on his phone as he made one last check for typos and then sent the suitably topical comment out into the world. His eyes lingered on his screen for a moment as he contemplated the question that had been on his mind for the last day.

“Sir, did you ever work in Kosovo?” He glanced up as casually as he could manage to with his heart beginning its daily attempt to force itself out of his chest. Naird had also directed his attention away from the sheet of paper in front of him, eyebrows raised in surprise.

“Err, no. Not Kosovo,” he answered, still fixing Tony with a transparent gaze that fully informed him that he was performing an investigation of his own. “Why do you ask?”

“I overheard some guys talking about an old operation there,” Tony lied, grateful for his ability to bullshit his way out of most corners. “Sounded interesting. The sort of bug-eating, piss-drinking type of affair that you tended to be involved with.” One corner of Naird’s mouth twitched and he shook his head with a reluctantly humorous sigh.

“I’m always glad to hear what you think my career boils down to,” he commented, expression flickering to something slightly more serious. “Just personal interest then?”

“Yep,” Tony said, glancing around as the door opened, revealing Doctor Mallory. He took this as his cue to leave, more than happy to get out of the gently scrutinising view of General Naird.

“Tony,” Naird called out as he reached the door. Tony pivoted on his feet, mouth pressed into a thin line in preparation for some sort of criticism. The general looked contemplative, as if he knew more than he was letting on or at least thought he might. “I know we’ve talked about it before but remember to think before you share certain bits of information.”

Doctor Mallory glanced quickly between the two of them, frowning ever so slightly. Tony let Naird stare at him for another second and then took his leave.

“Will do, sir.”

“What was that about?” Adrian asked as soon as the door closed, sitting comfortably in the seat Tony had left vacant. Mark had rested his chin on clasped hands and continued to watch the closed door before turning back to the scientist.

“Not sure yet,” he murmured thoughtfully, “Did Tony ever strike you as the sort of person who would take a personal interest in hearing old war stories?”

“Not in the slightest,” Adrian replied dryly.

“No, I thought not.” Mark’s hands dropped and he shook his head to clear whatever had preoccupied him. After all, Tony wasn’t the only one who was seemingly keeping secrets. “Anyway, I suppose you got my message if you’re here.”

“Yes, I did,” Adrian responded slowly, “Judging from the abrupt tone it wasn’t an invitation for a casual appointment.”

“I’ve been summoned to a meeting with SecDef this afternoon,” Mark said, getting to the point swiftly and simultaneously dragging his previously neutral expression down towards concern. “None of the other generals, just me.”

“Is that a bad sign?” Adrian asked carefully, deliberately maintaining a calmer outlook. The general had a habit for getting himself worked up about things.

“It can’t be good,” Mark replied, standing up with a sigh and moving towards the window, absently straightening his uniform as he walked. The heat of the mid-morning was visible in the haze on the horizon as the sun splayed across the leather sofa just in front of the glass. Mark’s shadow was soon joined by Adrian’s.

“So Kick has told the Secretary of Defence that he believes we are running this place below his exacting standards?” Adrian theorised, “And he wants to rush the merging of Air and Space Force he’s been so desperate for since day one?”

“Presumably,” Naird agreed resignedly, “And then it’s goodbye job for anyone Kick knows is loyal to me. I can’t let that happen. Think about it: he’s got some personal vendetta against Tony, it seems. I can’t protect him from that.”

“It’s not your job to,” Adrian replied softly, sounding reluctant to say it, “I know you want to ensure the safety of everyone here but – it’s not always going to be possible. Unless you tell the secretary what’s been going on.”

“Who knows where his loyalty lies,” Mark retorted with another sigh, “They’re all in each other’s pockets; SecDef, POTUS, Grabaston. I’m starting to think the only way out of this is forcing some sort of hearing. But we don’t even have the one piece of evidence we need for that so we’d lose every time.”

“I would usually think you’re being paranoid but I’m inclined to agree,” Adrian said slowly, turning away from the barren view through the window and watching Mark’s side profile as a cloud passed in front of the sun. “There’s nothing you can do until you find out what it’s about.”

“I don’t like feeling so unprepared,” Mark confided, deliberately keeping his own eyes on the glass. Adrian patted his arm supportively and then stepped away, well versed in the best course of action to take when Mark grew pensive.

“Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it.”


	11. Blackmail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> General Naird's meeting doesn’t go as planned, leaving him with a lot on his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit of a long one, sorry about that XD

Mark had walked down these hallways enough times for the numerous photos that lined the ornate walls to no longer attract his attention. Even if they had, he doubted it would have made much difference on this particular occasion, his mind well and truly fixated on the meeting that lay at the end of his walk.

As he approached the main doors to the meeting chamber, someone could be heard approaching from the opposite direction. After spending a career around military people he was well-accustomed to the regimented drumbeat of a soldier’s footsteps. Kick Grabaston rounded the corner a moment later.

“Grabaston,” he greeted stiffly, keeping up pretences purely for the sake of the two guards who stood to attention at the other end of the hallway. The Air Force general’s mouth twitched at his formalities, nodding his head in response.

“General Naird,” he smiled disingenuously and tilted his head towards the door. “I’m all set up in here if you’re ready.”

“I have a meeting with SecDef,” Naird said slowly, his eyes narrowing as he answered his own questions internally.

“I had to get you here somehow,” Grabaston replied with another smirk, his tone fraudulently casual, as if the two of them were sharing a joke. Naird smiled tightly in response and followed him towards the doorway, biting the inside of his mouth so he didn’t display any signs of his nerves outwardly.

“What’s this about, Kick?” He asked sharply as soon as the doors closed. He scanned the room swiftly, concentrating mostly on the laptop that the other general had headed towards.

“Dropping your manners so quickly, Naird?” He retorted, keeping that same false smile playing across his face. He sat down on one side of the desk that held the laptop, spinning it so the screen faced Naird. His arms had crossed, one eyebrow quirked in an overtly satisfied manner. Naird approached the computer, swallowing his doubt but remaining standing, ready to leave if he was being played all over again. “Anything go missing recently?”

“Only Major Baxter,” Naird replied coolly, “I see he went crawling back over to your side.”

“There aren’t sides here, general. You’re too caught up in the military mindset,” Grabaston chastised, hitting a key on the laptop to illuminate the screen. Naird finally sat down, swallowing tightly at the familiar sight of the Space Force courtyard. The quality wasn’t perfect but there were pairs of figures dotted around; each couple made up of green and grey uniforms. Kick himself was mid-stride, heading for a doorway towards the lower edge of the screen as another figure remained crouched behind a column. Naird didn’t need to read the date in the corner to know when it had taken place.

“I don’t think you got a chance to really appreciate what happened when you sent your little media manager to waste my time,” Kick continued, gratuitously drawing out his pause to allow Mark to first digest the scene and then getting the footage to play.

Tony stepped out as soon as the time at the bottom of the screen started to change, counting up those fateful seconds that Mark really didn’t want to see relived on tape. He darted over to the doorway, standing firm even as the pixels around his hands blurred, unable to keep up with the restless movements of his fingers. His voice was a little tinny through the laptop speakers but held strong as he did what he’d promised and stalled for time. Mark tried not to think about what was coming, strangely proud for the moment that Tony had stood his ground. 

“I don’t think these theatrics are necessary,” Mark told Grabaston, glancing at the other man and away from the screen as the Kick contained within it made a remark that had the other air men laughing at Tony. It was like some sort of schoolyard bullying, an arguably tame starter compared to what was to come but still enough to erase that pride and replace it with anger. Kick stepped forward and Tony remained in place.

“Oh, but we haven’t got to the good bit yet,” Grabaston replied, talking over Tony’s continued distractions. He seemed to only falter at a single question as it filled the room – _got any skeletons in your closet?_ – his expression returning to smug instantly. On the screen he responded similarly - _I’d watch where you’re going with this_ – his tone a poor mask over his obvious anger. Mark started to wonder if this was where the Kosovo questions had originated from. He couldn’t help but hope that Tony knew what he could be getting himself into. 

He focused again on the recording, watching Tony hold his arms out frustratedly and Kick transition from amused to frustrated, his next few steps forward more threatening. Mark winced, seeing that change, the moment where the general made his mind up and Tony really should have stepped back. The fact that he hadn’t was a mistake – a brave one nonetheless.

The Grabaston in front of Mark was watching his every movement with calculated pleasure, enjoying his wrinkled nose at the suddenly reasonable tone that was aimed at Tony – _Look, Tony_ – Mark blocked out the rest of this thinly veiled threat, knowing the sort of thing Kick would say in an attempt to appeal to Tony’s best interests. He was uncomfortably close to Tony, his hands landing on the other man’s shoulders and provoking a flinch that was visible even on the zoomed out footage.

Mark drifted momentarily to Duncan and the other space men, prompted by his protest – _get your hands off him, sir_ – briefly frustrated that the people who were trained to do so didn’t manage to stop what was inevitably coming next. It was impossible to ignore Tony’s boldness for long though – _you can’t order me to do shit_ – and Naird lamented his reliable ability to remain so stubborn.

Kick’s response was too quiet to hear, something that he now seemed almost proud of, observing Mark who couldn’t help but lean closer and strain to listen to no avail. He was seconds away from demanding to know what had been said, especially when the wavering reply followed - _I’d say I’ve kept you distracted for long enough._

He was surprised when Grabaston let Tony go, trying to connect the dots between this point in time and when he’d next seen Tony, reluctant to watch how he could get to the state he’d ended up in. The answer came soon enough, with Kick’s fingers flexing, curling into a fist. The tape jumped slightly and suddenly Tony’s head was snapping to one side, chased by the blur of Kick’s arm. Mark was used to suffering, he’d seen enough to fill a lifetime, but there was something so much harder about watching the younger man's hands fly out to grip the doorway, his shoulders tense as his head stayed bowed. Kick could have walked past him there and then but he stayed, seeming to enjoy Tony's mustered effort to lift his head again.

Mark glanced up at Grabaston now, desperate to break the silence in the room but unable to think of anything to say that didn’t sound as if he couldn’t bear to watch what was in front of him. The Tony on tape saved him from saying anything – _You know he’s a better man than you’ll ever be. I’m willing to bet you didn’t get to four-star general without taking some shortcuts_ – once more, both Grabastons bristled slightly at this comment, his reaction hardly suggesting innocence. Naird wondered again if this had been the catalyst for Tony’s questioning over his experience or lack thereof in Kosovo. Then again, having received this response on the recording, Tony was swaying slightly, hands still firmly grasping the door frame. Mark doubted he’d been paying much attention to Grabaston’s reactions.

“And the gun,” Kick narrated, stealing Mark’s attention away from the CCTV tape. “It’s like I said at the time, I don’t know how you pick them. He really looked like he thought I’d shoot him.” Mark refused to rise to this bait, watching Tony lean away from the weapon that was waving dangerously close to his face. He knew what happened but still found himself tense at the prospect of watching Tony get shot, forcing himself to remember that he’d at least avoided that particular injury. 

He didn’t escape without getting pushed against the wall, however. Again, faced with the option to walk straight through, Grabaston stayed. Tony's head had hit the wall with some force, making his entire body seem to fold, at times held up only by the returning pressure of Kick's relentless fists. He was hitting him everywhere; stomach, ribs, occasionally back up to his head, forcing his shoulders to collide with the hard surface behind them again and again. The tape was eerily quiet for a lot of this, the early protests of the space men dying down as they continued to get held back by the air men.

Finally Kick was pulling Tony's arms behind his back, ready to march him in like a prize. Mark's blood boiled at the memory of it. Tony wavered as he was pushed to walk, continually corrected by Grabaston who was flanked by two air men. But what struck was the final remark. _We'll see what Naird thinks of my little present for him._

The footage moved to the control room after that and Grabaston closed the lid of the laptop, evidently satisfied with the effect he’d had. Naird drew himself upright in his chair, preparing to deal with whatever gloating followed in a civilised manner.

“I think we’re both on the same page now,” Grabaston announced confidently, “It’s for the best that this tape remains with me for now; I’ve heard rumours that a decision over recombination is potentially getting moved forwards.” Mark paused, forcing himself to file away everything he needed to process from before and concentrate. That meant a hearing could be on the table; a way for them to prove what had happened. But Grabaston was being clever, taking the one piece of evidence they had away from them. If he had the level of influence Mark was sure he possessed, it would take cast-iron proof like the tape to swing the outcome in their favour. Mark could get all the people he wanted to claim that the CCTV had been doctored and he’d still likely lose.

Grabaston seemed satisfied with the effect he’d had, picking up the computer and walking out of the door with the one bit of evidence they needed under his arm. Mark remained seated for a moment and then followed suit, suddenly keen to be back on the Space Force base.

The interior of the base passed Naird by unnoticed, his hand lifting and falling on autopilot in response to the soldiers who saluted him. He felt like he’d been running, his heart thudding forcefully in his chest, when in reality he was doing nothing more than a fast-paced march. The only place he wanted to be for the time being was his office, wishing it could be closer to sunset.

He felt his shoulders dropping slightly when Brad looked up expectedly at the sound of footsteps. The one-star general had learnt not to bother him unless he had reason to, which only meant one thing.

“Doctor Mallory’s here to see-” 

The door shut, cutting the other man off. Mark lamented not having the time to close his eyes and mutter a short, sharp curse at the ground.

“Not now, Adrian,” he said instead, hoping that his tone would act as a sufficient deterrent to the chief scientist. It was always going to be wishful thinking.

“I forgot to mention it earlier but-”

“Not now.” Mark hadn’t removed his hat yet, the ceremonial piece of his uniform getting swiftly discarded on his desk rather than taking up its usual place under his arm. He sank down into one of the chairs in front of the window and rested his elbow on his leg, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers and then shifting to prop his chin up with his hand. As if avoiding the sight of Adrian would make him disappear, he continued to ignore the other man’s watchful gaze.

“Mark,” he said eventually, the simple gesture of saying his name feeling painfully supportive already, even if his tone held more of a questioning lilt. “What happened?” The general sighed, wishing that this would convey everything he didn’t want to recall.

“It’s-”

“Don’t say nothing,” Adrian interjected reliably, perching nearby on the arm of the sofa.

“It wasn’t the err, Secretary of Defence who was there,” Mark muttered lowly, inhaling slowly once more, “It was Grabaston.”

“What did he want?” Adrian prompted, as steady as always.

“The email was sent to him,” Mark clarified, registering dimly that they’d at least solved that mystery. Not that they’d expected anything different. “He showed me the tape.”

“With Tony?” Adrian queried again. Mark didn’t see the point in answering.

“I don’t know why – why we didn’t think to recover a copy of it in the two weeks between the attack and Baxter,” he said instead, running his hand over his hair exasperatedly, “I wasn’t expecting Grabaston to have got so much joy out of it. Tony got him worked up about something when he was trying to keep him distracted and he just - didn’t stop.”

“There’s something else,” Adrian observed carefully, not needing to phrase it as a question.

“Just the idea that Grabaston decided to drag Tony with him just to get to me; I feel responsible in some way, for what happened.” Mark let his gaze wander, the feeling of Adrian’s ready sympathy enough to convince him he didn’t want to receive the full extent of his pitying look.

“I don’t think you need telling that this wasn’t your fault,” Adrian replied cautiously, careful not to sound so commiserating in his tone. Mark glanced back over at him, mouth drawn tightly and forehead pinched. “You didn’t force Tony out there, you didn’t know the approach he would take and you certainly had no control over the way General Grabaston chose to respond.”

“I understand that Kick wants Space Force for himself,” Naird changed the subject subconsciously. He leant forward, happy to look Adrian directly in the eye when they weren’t discussing something so personal. “But I don’t get why he’s going about it in this way.”

“Through Tony, you mean?” Adrian replied, noting the way Naird’s eyes instantly shifted away again, his eyebrows drawing into a frown. “You said you thought Tony had hit a nerve. Maybe all of these things are just happening simultaneously and he’s seeing shortcuts to kill two birds with one stone.”

“Correlation, not causation?” Mark asked, the rather primitive attempt to use scientific terminology provoking a wry smile on Adrian's face.

“I suppose so, if thinking of it that way helps you,” he replied, choosing to be kind and not catch the other man out on a technicality. Now didn’t seem to be an appropriate time for a science lesson. “So he calls a meeting with you to prove he has the tape; for what reason? Surely as well as being evidence of you ignoring direct orders it also shows him physically assaulting an innocent man.”

“We can’t use it against him if we don’t have it,” Naird reasoned, suddenly remembering his closing words. “And he was making out as if a hearing about Space Force was being brought forward. He’ll be able to persuade them that we’d be better off recombining with the Air Force if we can’t use that to show what he did.”

“If we can prove he was responsible for stranding the crew on the moon, having taken over command from you, we can swing the hearing in our favour,” Adrian thought out loud, his frown clearly showing he had no real method to do this. He looked again at Mark, deciding that now wasn’t the time to be brainstorming ideas. “We’ll fix this, Mark. Like we always do.”

* * *

That evening, Chan drifted, eyes half-closed as his head rested against Tony who sat fiddling with his phone at one end of the sofa. Chan had claimed the remaining space, his legs bent a little to avoid the arm rest at the other end. He could feel himself being slowly lulled to sleep by Tony’s fingers as they gently moved through his hair. His other hand was occupied with his phone and he was clearly taking advantage of having use of both hands back.

They’d stayed late so his shoulder could be checked over again, the sling that he’d barely tolerated for the last month finally being discarded. Chan had rolled his eyes as he’d grumbled about what a pain it had been to have been stuck with it in the first place, hiding a smile at the light in Tony’s eyes. It was a week earlier than they’d expected and the other man seemed quietly grateful.

His wrist was still bandaged, although that didn’t stop him from brushing over Chan’s hair distractedly as if a portion of his focus was always directed towards the scientist. It had been a while since Chan had spent so much time with one person; longer since the other party had seemed keen to put in an equal amount of effort.

He could feel his head tilting to one side, a heavy weight on his shoulders, as another busy day left him exhausted. But his slow descent towards sleep was disturbed by the stilling of Tony’s fingers, his body tensing momentarily. Chan rocked his head forward, away from the makeshift pillow that wasn’t so comfortable once Tony’s arm had stiffened.

“What’s wrong?” He murmured softly, blinking harshly to bring the room back into focus. He shifted on the sofa to sit alongside Tony, watching the other man lock his phone and the screen displaying his email app slowly fade to black. He pocketed the device and tilted his head to look at Chan, something on his mind even as he mustered a smile. “Thinking too much?”

“Probably,” Tony agreed, tentatively nudging Chan to lie back down against him. The tension seemed to have drained from his body by the time Chan’s head rested back against his arm. Chan let the silence hang between them, curling his fingers around Tony's wrist when a hand landed softly on his chest. “Did General Naird seem weird to you before we left?”

They’d passed Naird on their way out of the medical bay, the other man stopping to comment on Tony’s lack of sling. Chan thought back to the short exchange, acknowledging the general’s unusually sympathetic expression as he’d talked to Tony. It was a look Chan had only ever seen cross Naird’s face on the few occasions Erin had come onto the base and seemed upset for one reason or another.

“He’s worried about you,” he told Tony around a yawn. Tony’s fingers interlaced with his own, tapping short patterns against the palm of his hand. “He does like you, you know?”

“Jealous?” Tony asked jokingly. Chan lifted his free hand and swatted blindly behind him, content when he made fleeting contact with Tony’s leg.

“Should I be?” He retorted, tilting his head backwards until he could just see Tony’s face and the beginnings of a smile flickering there.

“I don’t think so. He doesn’t know enough weird facts about plants,” Tony murmured, making Chan laugh under his breath.

“Is that an important quality to have?” It was Tony’s turn to chuckle, the sound reverberating through Chan’s back.

“If I had a list of my criteria, it would totally be number one,” he replied sarcastically, catching Chan’s other hand as he flicked it backwards again. Chan sighed contentedly and let himself drift back to that state of half-consciousness as the quiet settled over them once more. For a moment he considered the fact that Tony hadn’t explained what had made him briefly freeze but the thought didn’t last long in the haze of his tired brain.


	12. Surprise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An actual meeting with the Secretary of Defence leaves the team with another series of dilemmas. Tony tries and fails to appear calm.

“How can you be so sure that this meeting really is with the Secretary of Defence?” Adrian finally asked the question he’d been alluding to all morning with those quietly aimed comments he’d been offhandedly dropping into conversation since he’d arrived on the base.

“I don’t think Grabaston would pull the same stunt twice,” Mark replied, trying to sound firm in what was, in all honesty, shaky logic. “He likes the live aspect of it all; none of this remote setup.”

“Yes and he certainly hasn’t proved himself to be unpredictable,” Mallory muttered sarcastically, what sounded like frustration largely fuelling his tone. Mark was fairly certain that this channeling was done for his own benefit; Adrian had seemed reluctant in recent days to turn his usual scorn on the general. It wasn’t that he seemed as if he wanted to also have been shown the tape that had hung like a cloud over Naird’s head, but this shift in behaviour had changed since that meeting a fortnight ago. He was a cryptic man at the best of times anyway – maybe this was just his way of being concerned.

“The hearing hasn’t been arranged yet,” Mark posited, trying to redirect Adrian’s attention, “I’m willing to bet it’s about that.” This only made the scientist sigh. He’d been half heartedly preparing a showcase of the research Space Force had been conducting for this exact reason, so clearly believing it would be useless without some evidence to discredit General Grabaston.

“That would hardly be better news,” he said, still sounding combative but raising a valid point, “The sooner they set a date, the less time we have to recover the footage.”

Tony slipped through the door of the meeting room as he finished speaking, eyes trained on the phone in his hand. He seemed happy to let the other two men continue their conversation without his input, leaning against one of the tables at the back of the room so he would have an unobtrusive view of the video link to SecDef. Mark glanced over his shoulder, watching the younger man’s eyes track backwards and forwards across the screen of his phone, never scrolling as if he was reading the same thing over and over.

“Fashionably late as always,” Adrian remarked eventually, dragging his attention back to the screen.

“They did say ten o’clock?” Mark asked Tony, ignoring the flood of messy feelings (not quite guilt but he didn’t understand how else to categorise it) that had started to show up whenever he saw any sign of the attack still present on Tony’s person. This happened frequently as a result of the bandage that continued to wrap around one of his wrists and more forcefully in the less common flinches and general unease that certain events seemed to provoke.

“Yep,” Tony replied, putting his phone away, “Doc’s right though; I can’t remember the last meeting he showed up to on time.” 

It was another couple of minutes before the rotating Space Force logo gave way to a camera feed of the meeting room Naird had been falsely summoned to just two weeks earlier. And whilst the Secretary of Defence was in fact present, the all too familiar smugness of General Grabaston almost radiated out of the screen.

“Sir,” Naird greeted respectfully, setting his jaw in place and forcing himself to sound personable, “General Grabaston.”

“General Naird, thank you for sparing some time this morning. I understand that you are in the midst of some ongoing troubleshooting. POTUS has high hopes that all of that will be behind us soon,” the secretary responded, already making use of his trademark tactic of downgrading all handling of crises to ‘troubleshooting’ and steadfastly refusing to acknowledge that this may not be the case. “And Doctor Mallory, good of you to join us.”

“Good morning, sir,” Adrian replied, leaving a hint of disinterest in his tone for Mark and Tony’s benefit, Naird imagined. He paused at the thought; Tony was in the room. Tony was in the room that, to some extent, Grabaston also inhabited. He didn’t let himself read into the smirk on the other general’s face, refusing to see any potential satisfaction he got out of being able to watch Naird unable to turn around and check on Tony.

“As you will remember, at the time of launching Space Force there were some debates around the need for an entirely separate branch focusing on the work you have subsequently been responsible for,” SecDef continued, seemingly ignorant of Adrian’s unspoken disdain. Mark wasn’t sure he needed to hear the rest of this well-crafted speech, recognising the obvious build up to a hearing date. “General Grabaston suggested that it would be more efficient for your responsibilities to be absorbed into the Air Force which is a route that we are continuing to consider. As a result, we have proposed an independent hearing on the matter in three weeks time. Of course this is largely a formality; see it as an opportunity to show us what you have achieved so far.”

“Well, err, thank you for that opportunity, sir,” Naird fumbled, registering Adrian’s ducked head alongside him. He didn’t need to look to imagine the half-amused, half-exasperated expression at what the scientist would consider inefficient diplomacy. “Here at Space Force we are proud of what we have managed in such a short period of time and I hope any decision reached at the hearing would reflect this.”

On the screen the secretary was as impossible to read as normal. He seemed to flit rather erratically between looking deliberately enigmatic to blank, as if he wasn’t following the thread of a conversation. This was no exception, his answering nod too cryptic to decipher.

“General Grabaston will present a case for relocating Space Force duties to the Air Force in order to provide an opposing point of view,” he continued, still not explaining why the general had decided to be present in the first place. That was probably because there was no real reason, Mark thought bitterly.

“I’m looking forward to hearing about all of this work you’re so proud of,” Kick interjected, grinning snidely at Mark who shuffled discretely to further close the gap between himself and Adrian, aware at all times of Tony who sat on the table behind them. He still wanted to look, to see how he was reacting to all of this. From recent experience, a quiet reaction was never good news.

“Well, now we’ve settled that, I just need to address a couple of things with General Naird,” the Secretary of Defence told Grabaston. Surprisingly, the general left the room without a fuss, leaving the screen populated only by the other man. “Do you have an update on the crew on the moon? I was hoping that six weeks would be sufficient time for some progress to have been made.”

“Our crew has been successfully living inside the capsule they landed in,” Adrian responded competently, “We have been working on the adaptations to the craft that are needed to prepare it for re-entry into the earth’s atmosphere. Obviously these are modifications that would have taken place over a far longer duration as the lunar habitat was established but, with the entire crew at our disposal, we have made much swifter progress.”

“The team will return home and from there we will regroup, sir, in the hopes that relations with China may have thawed in time for a second attempt,” Naird added, watching the secretary carefully.

“That is good to hear, gentlemen. I’m sure the president will be pleased,” he said, “Obviously we will have to come up with a way to spin this positively, especially since so much effort has gone into covering up the – minor complications that resulted from General Grabaston’s attempts to claim some territory on the moon for us to utilise.” Naird felt like Adrian, trying to force himself not to roll his eyes or make a cutting remark. The man in front of them was frustrating to work with at times but his blatant disregard for what had taken place six weeks earlier was infuriating.

“I would hope that, in spite of the glossing over that is taking place in public, that would be an event we could highlight at the hearing, sir?” Naird asked tentatively. He disliked the secretary’s immediate reaction of sighing and then trying to look reasonable.

“Best to keep all mention of it under wraps,” he suggested lightly, “Public image is really quite important to the president at the moment, as you might understand. I trust you to find plenty of other reasons in support of Space Force, general. Keep me updated.” The screen went black as soon as he finished his rapid fire response, leaving Naird to growl frustratedly under his breath.

“This country is run by a large network of morons,” Adrian summarised drily, leaning back in his chair and looking ready to launch into a tirade against the government. He’d grown to do this frequently, his hesitance from their early days of working together long gone.

From the back of the room, Tony exhaled shakily, pulling Naird out of his own head and back to reality sharply. He stood up, immediately turning to face the younger man who looked noticeably pale but acted calm as if this would offset the clear physical signs of his discomfort.

“Are you okay, Tony?” Adrian was the one to ask, softening his tone considerably from its earlier frustration. Tony nodded slowly, trying to look as if he couldn’t understand the motivation behind asking such a question and then swiftly giving up, firing a weak smile in the scientist’s direction instead.

“I’m sorry, Tony. I didn’t know Grabaston would be present,” Mark interjected, adding this to the slowly growing pile of times where he felt he’d let the other man down. Until recently, this tally had probably been resting comfortably at zero and the exponential increase was starting to feel uncontrollable.

“It’s fine, sir,” Tony replied and when he said it, it was with an honesty that sounded genuine, “I’m pretty sure I’m going to have to get used to it, this being my job and all.” He didn’t add the unspoken thought that this might not be his job for much longer. Naird didn’t mention the way his hand reached up absentmindedly to loosen his tie.

* * *

Chan had settled into their usual routine of trading gossip about the base, interspersing the idle chatter with scraps of intellectual conversation from his day of research, mostly to reap the rewards of seeing Tony’s eyes soften almost fondly at what Chan knew was his own, awkward excitement. He had learnt over time that the other man probably didn’t want to discuss things like the reasons behind his slightly loosened tie or the occasional skittishness that manifested itself in his shorter, sporadic attention span.

Chan concentrated instead on the feeling of Tony’s leg brushing his own every so often, of their feet kicking each other harmlessly beneath the table, neither of their expressions ever alluding to the daily competition that went on alongside their conversations.

About halfway through their lunch break, Chan acknowledged the thing that had been bothering him for the first twenty minutes of their time. His gaze drifted over Tony’s shoulder, almost meeting General Naird’s eyes if they hadn’t been staring daggers into the other man’s back. The general himself seemed distracted as he sat opposite Doctor Mallory, his lunch going almost untouched.

“What did you do?” Chan asked automatically. Fuck Tony tilted his head to one side and frowned.

“Huh?”

“I’m surprised you can’t feel the searing pain of Naird’s eyes burning through your back,” Chan replied, watching Tony throw a glance over his shoulder and Naird react by instantly laughing and pretending his attention had been directed towards Mallory. The latter looked bemused, even from behind, at the general’s outburst. Tony snorted slightly and then turned back around, instantly more sombre.

“It’s not me he’s mad at,” he said lightly, tearing the sandwich in his hand into smaller chunks but not making a move to eat a single piece. “Grabaston was at the meeting about the hearing this morning.” Chan’s eyes shot up from his perusal of the table, trying to gauge the authenticity in the casual tone that the other man was pulling off. Conclusion: not feeling so casual about it.

“He wasn’t meant to be there,” Tony continued without having to be asked, “I think Naird’s getting fed up of waiting, you know? Waiting to fight our corner, I guess.”

“And you’re not?” Chan asked kindly, lifting one corner of his mouth dejectedly. “You don’t want to get him suspended or something?” Tony exhaled a silent, humourless laugh.

“I don’t want anything to do with him right now,” he admitted eventually, gesturing to his tie, “Seeing him in there stressed me out way more than it should have done. I think I forgot how to breathe for a little bit.” His dismissive, self-deprecating tone only concerned Chan further. He’d got to know how to translate the language of Fuck Tony and knew that forgetting how to breathe delivered in a humorous tone equalled minor panic attack. A ‘little bit’ could be anything from one minute to twenty.

“We’re gonna get him for what happened,” he assured Tony firmly, “It might take a while but we will.” This reaction at least prompted a smile on the other’s face which Chan was willing to settle for given the narrow window of their lunch break.

“General Naird should seriously think about making some distinction between his angry and protective behaviours,” he commented, only to see the expression grow further as Tony finished off the sandwich that had been slowly spread over his plate for the duration of their break.

They stood up together a few minutes later and Chan left his tray momentarily on the table in favour of stepping around and re-tightening the knot of Tony’s tie. He patted the fabric down with a satisfied smile and held the other man’s gaze as he tilted his head down slightly to meet his own eyes.

“There we go,” Chan said, smiling only a little sheepishly and going to remove his hand from Tony’s chest when fingers wrapped around his wrist.

“Thanks,” Tony replied, ducking his head swiftly to press a kiss against Chan’s cheek, moving as if he didn’t want to give himself the chance to back out. When he withdrew he was the usual, cheeky caricature of himself, grinning easily at what Chan was sure was a blush rising on his face. “Go, save the world with rat droppings or whatever it is you’re doing. I know you keep explaining it but I never really follow and I don’t like to say because, like, you might think I’m even more stupid than you probably already know I am…” His voice had got progressively louder as he backed away, his rambling replacing the heat in Chan’s face with an amused smirk. 

He watched Tony head over to Naird in preparation for their next series of meetings that afternoon, catching Doctor Mallory’s eye briefly and nodding in response to the small smile on the older man’s face.


	13. Kamikaze

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chan has a breakthrough. Tony’s long-kept secret continues to leave him indecisive.

“You know, out of the two of us I really expected to be the one with the interesting life for the next few months, given the whole trip to space thing,” Captain Ali half heartedly lifted her arms into a despondent shrug, bobbing up and down on Chan's screen.

“I’d swap,” Chan replied propping his head up with his hand, a notebook littered with rejected ideas tucked behind his computer keyboard in case he got a sudden burst of inspiration. He raised his eyebrows at Angela’s disbelieving expression. “What?”

“I wouldn’t have thought you’d want to trade whatever it is you’ve got going on with Tony,” she commented, trying to sound obviously casual as her comically wriggling eyebrows betrayed her amusement. Chan narrowed his eyes, leaning back in his chair and appraising her smug demeanour.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He feigned ignorance, just waiting for her to reel off a list of ways he’d been transparent around Tony in the last week or so before she’d left earth.

“You never stop talking about him,” she teased, drifting further from the screen and pulling herself closer again. “It’s cute.”

“No it’s not,” Chan groaned under his breath, “How are you still such an asshole when you’re not even on this planet?” She laughed, quirking an eyebrow.

“Give yourself some credit, Doctor Chan,” she cajoled jokingly, “Because from my perspective he sounds pretty infatuated with you too.” Chan paused, his eyes landing on his notebook, his brain feeling momentarily like he was trying to recall the details of a dream as it started to fade from memory.

“Say that again,” he asked slowly. On the screen, Captain Ali frowned.

“Why? Do you want to hear it twice?” She mocked lightly, brow furrowing when Chan didn’t laugh.

“Seriously, say what you said again.” He leant forward intently.

“He seems pretty infatuated with you too,” she repeated, her voice lifting at the end as if she was asking a question. He shook his head frustratedly.

“No, no, no. The whole thing,” he said, grasping at the subconscious idea that something she’d said had triggered.

“Give yourself some credit,” Angela began, screwing her face up as she recalled the exact phrasing. “Because from my perspective-”

“Your perspective,” Chan interjected, snapping his fingers triumphantly. He was on his feet before Angela finished her sentence.

“Hey! What’s going on?” Her head grew bigger on the screen again, as if she was trying to break through and follow him to wherever he had leapt up to go to.

“You’re a genius,” he explained cryptically, prompting a surprised smile to cross her face. “Maybe.” Her mouth flattened out again.

“I hope you’re better at paying Tony a compliment,” she retorted to his retreating back, throwing her hands up in despair as he dashed out of the room.

It was midday and the base was busy. Chan ducked and weaved between loitering groups of soldiers, his lab coat flapping around his legs. He reached the lab swiftly, freezing at the door and scanning the large room for any sign of Mallory.

The chief scientist didn’t appear to be there so he turned around, ready to set off for General Naird’s office and hoping his own word would convince the general of his plan. He was preoccupied, trying to quell the pinprick light of hope that had hesitantly illuminated in his head, running straight into someone’s back.

“Sorry,” he apologised, wincing slightly as they also began to talk.

“Hey.” What started as something indignant became surprise as Tony turned around to face him, the syllable drawn out and then dying in his mouth. “Chan? I didn’t know they got the science division to run nowadays.”

“Doctor Mallory?” Chan asked hopefully, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet in anticipation.

“With Naird, in his office,” Tony replied bemusedly, blinking rapidly as the other man set off, throwing a thank you over his shoulder, “Okay. See you later, then.”

Chan was used to splitting his time between the lab and the control room, stopping halfway for meals at the canteen. He’d never quite appreciated the scale of the base although he felt it in his heavy breathing as he thundered down the stairs towards the general’s office.

“Is Doctor Mallory here?” He asked Brad, leaning on his desk breathlessly.

“General Naird asked not to be disturbed,” Brad replied, not really answering the question. “Not being disturbed means you can’t go in!” His voice raised as Chan headed for the door regardless.

“Kind of an emergency,” he replied, taking the time to tentatively knock on the door but finding himself too impatient to wait for a response.

Inside the office, General Naird was pacing in front of a table, its surface entirely covered in at least two layers of papers and reports. Doctor Mallory was sat on the corner of the desk, his attention shifting from the pacing general and over to the door.

“Doctor Chan?” He asked, sounding surprised. Naird pivoted sharply on his heel, mouth set in a straight line that was swiftly dropping downwards.

“Brad! A do not disturb sign on the door would be more use than you are!” He shouted, just fitting the insult in before the door shut behind Chan. “Doctor Chan, we are in the middle of something-” 

“It’s important, sir,” Chan argued back persistently, shooting a pleading look in Mallory’s direction.

“I’m the head of Space Force. Everyone thinks what they have to say to me is important,” Naird responded, sounding more than fed up with this fact.

“I think I know how we can win the hearing,” Chan got to the point, instantly revelling in the shift of focus in the room. Both Naird and Mallory were staring intently at him. It was for this very reason that he’d intended to bring up the idea less confidently because now there was some level of expectation that he really had solved their problems.

“Well?” Mallory asked curiously once the room had been bathed in silence for a little too long.

“It was something Captain Ali said, sir, about seeing things from her perspective,” Chan explained, sensing that he was already losing the general and changing tactics to get to his idea more quickly, “Grabaston stole the footage that was recorded in the control room but there will be a record of the entire evening stored on the rocket, because they were linked to the control room the entire time.”

“Is this true?” Naird swivelled to face Adrian, the contours in his face constantly rippling as if he didn’t want to get his hopes up but couldn’t entirely contain his expectations. Chan felt himself shrinking as Mallory frowned thoughtfully for a long time, waiting for all of this long-awaited positivity to come crumbling down around him.

“It would be of a lower quality and only the control room section, of course,” Mallory theorised eventually. Chan felt his tightened shoulders slump with the relief that he wasn’t responsible for the biggest let down of the last few weeks. He was surprised when Mallory was suddenly looking at him again, pushing his glasses up his nose and looking – impressed. “You could be onto something. Of course, we’d have to get the rocket back here before the hearing.”

“We can’t remotely access the rocket’s database? Or get them to send the recording?” Chan asked, that victorious feeling slipping ever so slightly.

“No, the storage systems aren’t really designed to be accessed without the rocket being at the base,” Mallory replied, “After all, we would normally only want to analyse them, if at all, at the end of a mission.”

“But it’s possible?” Naird interjected, after letting them exchange ideas for what he considered to be long enough. He’d shifted some of the papers to one side, leaning against the table, his hands gripping the tabletop with a restless energy. Whilst this would be a breakthrough for everyone, Chan couldn’t help but think that Naird needed the good news the most. Especially concerning the recording, he’d seemed reluctant to indulge even Mallory in a futile conversation about how they could recover it from General Grabaston. Not to mention the unexplained shift in his behaviour around Tony.

“Yes, if we get the rocket back here before the hearing,” Adrian qualified again, clearly trying to emphasise that they weren’t out of the woods yet. But then he was turning his attention back on Chan as he hovered by the door, surprised to see the impressed smile the older man allowed to rest on his face for a moment. “I’m almost jealous I didn’t think of it myself.”

“Yes, Chan, I may have had my reservations about you but I’m impressed,” Naird interjected, giving his version of a compliment. Doctor Mallory was rolling his eyes but seemed too distracted by this new motivation to verbally chastise him.

“Thank you, sir,” Chan replied good-naturedly, the flawed attempt at praise nowhere near enough to spoil his good mood.

“Three weeks will be a tough ask, I imagine?” Naird asked questioningly. Chan shared a glance with a Doctor Mallory, shrugging his shoulders very slightly.

“We launched a rocket over three years ahead of schedule, sir,” he pointed out hesitantly, “Obviously the circumstances are a little different but we should be able to manage it.”

“And if we weren’t able to, perhaps we could overturn the results of the hearing after the fact if we presented this new piece of evidence,” Doctor Mallory pointed out to a musing Naird.

“Okay, so we aim for the hearing date but don’t compromise on safety. As Adrian says, if we need to spend the extra time, we can work on overruling the decision. Best to take an extra couple of days to get Captain Ali and her crew back safely.” Naird finished with a small, satisfied smile on his face as if he’d regained some of the authoritative confidence he used to exude at the start of his job at Space Force. “Good work, Chan.”

Like all breakthroughs, they seemed unable to sustain the positive momentum for long. Chan’s phone vibrated in his pocket, alerting him to a message from Tony and then two more following rapidly.

Grabaston here.

At your bench. 

Bring Naird.

* * *

Meanwhile, moments after Chan had disappeared around a corner, Tony had refocused. He’d found himself with some spare time, choosing to take a brief walk around the base, toying with his phone. Where he might once have enjoyed a thirty minute break, work had recently provided an effective distraction from other matters, namely the one in his hand.

He stopped at a bench in a more secluded area of the base. Chan had showed him the quiet corner one day on their walk to the car park, fairly transparent in his intention to give Tony somewhere peaceful to sit if he wanted to take a moment away from the base.

He looked down at the blank screen of his phone, knowing the email that sat in his inbox off by heart. He had been reading it repeatedly for the last two weeks after all. His fingers fiddled restlessly with the small device before unlocking it, eyes moving rapidly over the page that was already loaded up.

The thing is, he’d only sent an email to the soldier, Tommy Scott’s webpage because his claims about Grabaston were pretty serious. It wasn’t that he struggled to believe the story (far from it, he could readily imagine the general behaving so selfishly) but he felt a certain level of responsibility to provide the other three men with a viable solution, one that wouldn’t land them in even more trouble.

It had been a formality, that’s all. A couple of basic questions to ensure the validity of the evidence, nothing more than a background check for his own peace of mind. The reply he’d received had pretty spectacularly provided the opposite.

The thing is, it wasn’t even from Tommy. Apparently his family had discovered the website fairly recently, his sister finally managing to log in. She had since checked it regularly for no particular reason, she claimed, just sentiment. Because the really bad news, the thing that had been playing on Tony’s mind for a fortnight, was that Tommy wasn’t around anymore.

Suspicious death around six months after Grabaston’s unexpected promotion, she’d said. A quick vetting of this confirmed her story although the limited mentions of it tended to skip the suspicious descriptor. Remembering it made Tony tense all over again, recalling how he’d had to fumble with an excuse when Chan had noticed his reaction to it the first time. He’d recovered fairly well then but the implications of it had come back to hit him repeatedly over the days since.

Say Tommy had found out about the general’s promotion – likely, seeing as no one made four-star general without a bit of a fanfare. Logically the Kosovo story, as Grabaston told it at least, would be intrinsically linked to this news. Then what? Tommy confronted Grabaston, one thing led to another and suddenly he was quietly got rid of, the last couple of threads tied off and tucked away. He said himself that he was the only one who had noticed and a quick check with the sister proved that his blog had hardly received much traffic. She also said that the family hadn’t wanted to pursue anything, unwilling to watch Tommy’s reputation get dragged through the mud by someone with more influence.

So that left Tony with a predicament. Obviously Grabaston was hiding this. If Tony could persuade anyone to listen, he might get somewhere. Unfortunately in a worst case scenario it seemed he might also get nowhere at all and end up dead for his troubles. And he’d had his kamikaze moment already; he didn’t want another, not when he now had other priorities to consider. He did think about it sometimes; how it was probably his fault that they’d ended up with Grabaston on their back as he seemed to have implied he was already aware of his shady past before he’d even thought to research it, how that made him feel responsible for getting them out of the crisis. General Naird had spent his life working to get where he was. Mallory and Chan were the same, working at the top of their field with a budget they couldn’t hope to get anywhere else. Grabaston winning the hearing saw the inevitable end of all of that. 

He glanced up from the ground, straightening from where he’d been hunched over his phone and leaning back against the bench. He’d found himself in this situation a couple of times in the last week, getting as far as drafting an email that linked Tommy’s website and then stopping short of filling in the recipient field. Sending it to anyone within the armed forces was a risk whilst sending it to a journalist could be ineffective. Every time he’d chosen to wait. Every day spent with Chan made his choice harder.

When Grabaston suddenly appeared in the secluded courtyard, Tony found himself blinking a couple of times, then frowning. He’d found himself moving calmly to unlock his phone once more, locating Chan’s number and typing out a message with a level of detachment that both impressed and scared him in equal measures.

Grabaston here.

Putting it in writing prompted the nausea he’d expected to feel when faced with the prospect of being alone with the general to surface. He forced himself to think logically for as long as his head would allow him.

At your bench.

Chan would know what he meant, Tony was sure. He was also subsequently concerned that the scientist would drop everything and turn up on his own; not ideal.

Bring Naird.

The last one was too abrupt. It would worry him unnecessarily which bugged Tony more than it should given the much more significant problem walking straight towards him. He remembered Chan running off to the general’s office and calculated how much time he had with Grabaston.

The older man was approaching swiftly, his uniform immaculate with a slick, untrustworthy expression to match. Tony dropped his phone into his pocket, acutely aware of the power he had. It was a power that he had deduced Grabaston knew he possessed; perhaps he had even assumed Tony had it much earlier.

He probably had three to five minutes, depending on how much urgency Naird chose to direct towards the rescue mission Tony was silently hoping for. He was pretty much qualified in wasting people’s time so that wasn’t an issue but he was already unsure of whether his legs would buckle if he tried to stand up. Talking wasn’t going to be a problem but the idea of having to keep calm for several minutes had already left him with a sheen of sweat cooling the back of his neck.

“Tony, what an unexpected surprise. I think it’s time we had a chat.”


	14. No Man's Land

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grabaston has a conversation with Tony. The two of them have very different ideas of what constitutes conversation.

For the second time that day, Chan was running across the base. He was constantly aware of General Naird, hovering slightly as his shoulder as he ran below his usual pace, probably too distracted to bring this up. After all, he didn’t even know where they were going. Chan hated knowing that Grabaston was back (and near Tony) but he hated the idea that it was happening somewhere with no CCTV coverage at all even more.

Back in the office he’d tried to get Naird to follow him instantly, promising to explain on the way. He’d been fixed with that patient, not having it expression but found that the words _it’s Tony_ did a pretty good job of bypassing Naird’s usual requirement to know exactly what was going on before doing anything.

Even though this hadn’t taken too long, he couldn’t help but be aware of those wasted seconds. He’d told Tony he wouldn’t get hurt again. He’d told him General Naird wouldn’t let that happen. And now he wasn’t in a position where he could stop it.

* * *

“Tony, what an unexpected surprise. I think it’s time we had a chat.”

Grabaston was talking as soon as he drew close enough to be heard, betraying the fact that he too was aware of the time pressure. Tony stayed seated, still not trusting himself to stand without shaking like a leaf in front of a man he really didn’t want to give the satisfaction of seeing that to.

“I don’t have anything to say to you,” he replied instead, wanting to groan with frustration when the general’s expression instantly turned sour.

“I don’t think that’s true,” the general chastised, his tone dangerously delicate. “After all, the last time we were in this position I think we both know there were plenty of things you could have said.” That confirmed his suspicions then; the things he’d said just to rile up the general before had hit the mark more noticeably than he’d thought.

“You really think I knew back then?” He knew how this went now. He stalled for time and Grabaston decided whether or not to land a few punches. Tony was happy to play his own role but more reluctant to see a reprise of Grabaston’s. “That’s why you stole the footage? So you had something to hold against me?”

“Not quite,” the older man replied, a brief frown showing that he had indeed believed that, “You and I both know that the footage would swing the hearing in your favour.”

“So would this,” Tony retorted, raising an eyebrow, “You killed a superior officer on your own side to earn a promotion.”

“Not quite,” Grabaston said again, “You see, he’s not dead. Was he wounded at the time? Of course. Did I end up getting celebrated for both saving the team and him? Yes. Don’t worry about him, Tony. He’s a veteran now and you know what veterans are like, sharing their stories; I believe his favourite is the one about the time the current Head of the Air Force saved his live.”

“How do you live with yourself?” The question slipped out involuntarily and Tony instantly tensed up, prepared for a physical response. Grabaston merely sneered amusedly at his reaction.

“You’re asking the wrong questions, Scarapiducci,” Kick mocked again, “Looking in the wrong places. Because the thing you should really be concerned about it what happened to Tommy.”

“I know what happened to Tommy,” Tony replied hollowly, feeling his nose wrinkle at the thought of it. There was something different about thinking about it in front of the man who was directly responsible.

“Then we should be on the same page,” Grabaston hissed, grabbing a fistful of Tony’s shirt and pulling him upright. As it turned out, his legs did manage to function regardless of the trembling that ran through the rest of his body. Kick’s face was close, every ripple and contour on his face visible as his expression changed rapidly. “It would be a shame if you had to go the same way.”

His face didn’t move away, affording Tony a front seat ticket to the glimmer in his eye that preceded any further action. Having barely registered it, Grabaston’s face was thrown out of his field of view, the backdrop of the base spiralling until there was nothing but grey and the leftover sting of the impact from the floor.

Tony’s first, fleeting thought was that it was humiliating to be lain out on the ground like that, gravel and dirt pressing persistently against his closed mouth, as Grabaston stood so far above him. His next thought lingered, not at all helpfully alerting him to everything that suddenly hurt again. Six weeks should have been long enough but the pain in his shoulder had returned as a dull ache and his head was ringing all over again from the impact of the floor. 

He stayed put for a moment, just categorising the areas of pain; the small flare ups and the regions that prickled all over. As he pushed himself up with the one hand that seemed to be fully functional, a weight pressed him back down. His back arched against it, feeling the clear outline of a boot pressing against his spine until he slowly deflated against the ground as if he could hope to squeeze himself thin enough to escape the pressure entirely.

“I see you learnt when to back down from a fight you’re bound to lose,” Kick taunted from above him, unnecessarily stepping down with more weight regardless of his observation that Tony was choosing to concede this messed up strength tournament that only one of them had ever been interested in participating in.

“You’re doing – it again,” Tony breathed out against the concrete, surprised when the shifting pressure on his back suggested that the general had heard and understood him. “Why am – I worth your – your career?”

“You have an inflated sense of your own importance,” Grabaston said scornfully, his foot moving up Tony’s spine and settling around his shoulder blades. “You know what happened to Tommy Scott. Sometimes people disappear and no one makes a fuss.”

“Too many people – know this time,” Tony retorted weakly, hearing his breath catch as the pain flared across his shoulder in waves. He could feel the hand that was still bandaged from their first altercation protesting his own weight as he was pushed down on top of it, any attempt to remove it from beneath him quashed by Grabaston’s foot.

“And that means the important people would care?” The general sounded amused, proud of himself for his own question. “You’re going to lose the hearing and the precious job you seem to be inexplicably attached to. Then you’ve got a choice: keep quiet or keep losing.”

Tony read the threat behind his words clearly enough, not needing to feel the boot that drifted closer to his neck, the pressure becoming more restrictive on his breathing. He opened his mouth to say something, not that he even knew what to tell the other man, finding nothing but a thin rasp of air leaving his body. A low buzzing settled in his brain, building up to a whine and then a high-pitched alarm as time continued to pass.

“Grabaston!”

The rough voice prompted the sudden release of pressure, air forcing itself back into his lungs and making him cough painfully. The few sounds that characterised the secluded corner came rushing in, in place of the static that had been there before. He felt his head slump back against the ground, letting a blend of shouting and who knows what else wash over him.

A hand landed in his hair, moving too cautiously to be anyone but Chan. He glanced up to confirm his suspicions, rolling as far as he could to get the weight off of his wrist.

“Are you-” he tried to say, repeating himself unsuccessfully as nothing escaped his mouth. Chan seemed to get the idea, swiftly interjecting.

“Stop it, just – stop. I’m fine,” he cut him off with a subtle desperation. “Are _you_ okay?” Tony loosely moved his hand up to brush against Chan’s leg, hoping that this would be an adequate substitute for a verbal response. If he managed to produce one, he imagined the thready quality of his voice would surely weaken any assertion that he was even close to being alright.

He could still only find the resolve to focus on Chan, leaving him floundering when the scientist’s head shot up and he seemed to listen to an instruction of some sort.

“Can you walk?” He glanced down at Tony, watching for the hesitant nod he got in reply. Again his head turned away, addressing someone else.

“The general is making sure Grabaston gets out of here,” he told Tony, clearly sensing that the other man wasn’t following. Tony was grateful that he brushed over this topic for the time being, not addressing the fact that it was a case of getting rid of the general and not bringing him back so that he could face the appropriate consequences. If Tony thought about that for too long he imagined his legs would be far less functional when the time came for him to move again.

Chan’s fingers never left his hair, providing a grounding motion that stopped the helter skelter type spiral that his brain was repeatedly drawn towards. Flashes of losing everything; the job, the steady influence of Naird and Mallory, _Chan_ ; pushed persistently against his eyelids whenever he shut them, beating on the door to be let in. 

He hovered shakily in no man’s land, not quite hurt enough to let himself drift away but too keyed up to remain entirely tethered to reality. The only solution was to feel Chan’s movements against his head and to occasionally register the other man’s unsteady breathing, only to push that down because it came with a hefty price tag of guilt.

After some time he was upright and leaning against the bench and Chan, letting his head rock back to rest on the seat as Chan’s head tilted to brush against his shoulder. He was grateful of the other man’s quick thinking, allowing them a moment of peace before he forced himself upright and limped back to the medical bay with excuses for the people who were surely fed up of seeing him there.

“What did he want? Why did he do that?” Chan asked shakily, sitting upright when Tony shook his head slowly. “You’re keeping something from me.” Tony wanted to keep up some pretence but the blunt statement of a fact in Chan’s voice shattered his resolve instantly.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, wincing at the sound of his own voice, “I didn’t want to drag you into it.” Chan’s glasses were pushed aside by his hand as it pinched either side of his nose.

“I’m already in it, Tony,” he replied, not sounding annoyed like he had in every iteration of this conversation that had taken place in Tony’s head. “ _We’re_ in it. Both of us.”

“Can we talk about it at home?” Tony asked, wondering if he’d stop short of pleading if Chan didn’t agree.

“Let’s get you patched up first,” Chan conceded fairly, seeming to push aside his worry for a moment for Tony’s benefit, “You know, if there wasn’t another reason, I’d say you were getting into these situations so you could justify staying with me for a bit longer.”

“It would almost be a worthwhile trade-off,” Tony murmured, smiling tentatively and feeling overwhelming relief when Chan returned the expression. The scientist had shuffled away from the bench, looking ready to get to his feet and help Tony up when he leaned closer. It was his turn to brush a loose strand of Tony’s hair to one side, pressing a chaste kiss against his lips. Tony leaned closer as he pulled back, frowning at the other man’s tentative gesture.

“You’ve only just got your breath back,” Chan explained cheekily, grinning more at Tony’s shaking head.

“You’re ridiculous,” he murmured, smiling reluctantly. Chan kissed his forehead instead, finally getting to his feet.

“And you’re insufferable,” he joked in return, reaching a hand out. Tony grasped the temporary life line he was offered, knowing that he could and would have much more trouble processing everything that had happened once he had a chance to slow down.


	15. Deflection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Naird loses his temper as Chan keeps his under control, entirely for Tony's benefit of course.

Naird felt Chan leave his side and rush to Tony as Grabaston moved away, the boot that had been resting perilously close to his neck finally relenting. As if he’d just been called over for a chat, the Air Force general walked calmly, leaving the slumped figure on the floor as if he was invisible. Mark gave himself long enough to witness a series of breaths enter and leave Tony’s body, comforting himself with the sight of Chan seeming to get some sort of response.

“What the hell are you doing?” He snapped as Grabaston smugly observed him. He glanced over his shoulder and then back again, expression unchanging.

“So puppy doesn’t tell his owner everything,” he mused cryptically, snatching his arm away when Naird reached out to grab it. Instead, he walked of his own volition away from the two men on the ground.

“Do you need a medical team sent here?” Naird called across the small courtyard. Chan’s head snapped upwards as if he’d forgotten the rest of the world had carried on for a moment. He glanced down, muttering something to Tony and then looking up.

“No, he says he can walk,” he replied, sounding slightly sceptical, “I think he’ll be okay. I’ll sit with him until he’s alright to get to the medical bay.” Naird nodded shortly, turning back to Grabaston who had continued to meander away from the scene as if he were browsing an art gallery.

“See,” he said as soon as Naird was close enough, “No harm done.” They’d got out of sight, in a narrow thoroughfare between this secluded corner and the rest of the base. This was all the excuse Naird needed to spin Grabaston roughly against the wall, one hand maintaining a firm grip on his jacket. The other general at least had the manners to look surprised for a moment.

“I told you not to come back here,” he ground out lowly, his jaw clenched with an anger that had crept up on him, “You’re a four-star general, Kick! I used to think you were just doing what you were told, playing the game, but this is out of order. Why are you so obsessed with Tony?”

“That’s for him to tell,” Grabaston replied infuriatingly, not fighting against Naird’s grip but seeming amused that they had ended up in that position. “Or not.”

“I’m fed up of your games,” Mark said tiredly, letting go of the jacket with a disgusted sneer and waiting for Grabaston to resume his walk. “What was your excuse for being here this time?”

“I’m making an inventory of all of the pointless, expensive things on this base that make it less viable to run without interference from the Air Force,” he replied, flashing a wolffish grin in Naird’s direction. “You see, I’m not even going to need to bring up the fact that you were recently told to stand down having directly disobeyed orders, Naird. Your useless little base has provided me with all of the evidence I need.”

“And Tony?” Naird persisted. Grabaston’s face flashed for a moment and then settled on another amused expression.

“Merely a distraction,” he replied, insufferably casual, “If he’d got out of my way before, I’d have no interest in him. He’s brought all of this on himself.”

Naird ignored the obvious attempt to rile him up and continued to walk, every step fuelled by a seething anger.

* * *

He was as underdressed as Chan had ever seen him at the base, his suit jacket and tie discarded and shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbow. His gaze stayed fixed in one position instead of wandering in the way it had the last time Chan had found him in the medical bay. His wrist was freshly bandaged and cradled in his lap, his other hand resting palm up on his leg, an open invitation for Chan. Their fingers interlocked with a familiar ease and he’d brush his thumb over Chan’s knuckles every so often.

Chan found himself focusing on the minutiae, anything that felt normal. The list to the contrary was far longer, far scarier and _he didn’t want to think about it._

He didn’t want to think about the twitches that had travelled through Tony’s hand and into his own whenever someone else touched him. He didn’t want to think about the persistent trembling that had developed since they’d sat down on the side of the bed. He didn’t want to think about the pain in his shoulder and down his back, the rasp in his voice that made every word sound like it hurt, the pale sheen that took over his face that could have been there because of all of the above but was more likely to be a direct result of the tired stress that had suddenly imprinted itself across every minute movement on his face.

Whenever they were left alone in the room, between the various tests and treatments that the doctors seemed reluctant to be providing as a replacement to the advised trip to the hospital, Tony’s head tilted until it fit neatly on Chan's shoulder, his slightly mussed hair ticking the crook of the other man’s neck. He’d let his own head fall to one side, occasionally turning to press his mouth against the tangle of brown curls, waiting for the sound of footsteps to ruin their moments of peace.

“I’m surprised they haven’t just insisted that you go to hospital,” Chan eventually said, when the pressure of the silent room became too much and his most pressing thoughts forced their way through the cracked façade he was trying to put up to ward off the devastation that seemed hell-bent on destroying him from the inside out. Tony stayed quiet as Chan ducked his head away for a moment, lowering his voice to let one last remark escape. “He could have killed you.”

“I don’t think so,” Tony whispered, swallowing against the roughness of his voice, “We were in broad daylight on a base full of soldiers. If he wanted me dead he’d have been clever about it.”

“This isn’t a movie,” Chan retorted, forcing the complex tangle of emotions that surged up his throat back into a box. He didn’t want to shout – or he did, but not at Tony. “Real life is – messier.”

“He wouldn’t be so careless,” Tony insisted.

“How do you know that?” Chan asked incredulously, finding it hard to stay still even as the tight grip of Tony’s hand left him unable to gesticulate. “Or are you just saying it to make me feel better?”

“He’s killed people before,” Tony muttered, his tone suggesting that he wasn’t just talking about his days as a soldier, “He’s got away with it before…” He trailed off, eyes downcast and thoughtful. Chan replaced his head against Tony’s and sighed softly.

“At home?” He said quietly, willing to be as insistent as he needed to in order to get the full story. Tony nodded, a grateful smile tugging at the corners of his mouth and just about overcoming the other forces that seemed to have teamed up with gravity to pull his expression downwards.

He stirred again at the next sound of footsteps but Chan stayed put when he spied a mauve blazer coming around the corner, heralding the arrival of Doctor Mallory.

“Any news?” Chan asked hesitantly. The last they knew, Naird had been herding Grabaston off of the base.

“He’s gone,” Mallory replied solemnly, a quick glance towards Tony suggesting that the use of a pronoun in place of a name was an intentional kindness. “How are you feeling, Tony?”

“Like I got trod on for a couple of minutes,” Tony said, shifting his head from beneath Chan’s and firing an evasive smile in the older man’s direction. Surprisingly, and very obviously going against everything in his nature, Mallory seemed to accept the circumvention of a genuine conversation and responded with a tight lipped smile of his own.

“Chan, may I have a quick word with you?” He changed his focus, although it wavered when Tony tensed palpably. Chan bit his lip, feeling Tony’s grip get somehow tighter and debating a way to leave no one dissatisfied.

Luckily, General Naird came striding around the corner at that moment, both prompting the release of Chan’s hand from Tony’s vice-like hold and the small nod that he gave in Mallory’s direction. The general’s mouth had tightened into a drawn up line as he entered the room, looking subtly grateful as Mallory and Chan moved away.

“Tony,” he greeted gruffly, his hand lifting from his side and hovering for a noticeable length of time before resting briefly on the other man’s arm. Tony shot him a similar smile, making considerably less effort to make it believable.

“Sir,” he replied, redirecting his gaze to allow Naird to wince at the quality of his voice without looking guilty about it.

“I don’t like to ask but what did he say to you?” Naird asked tentatively, having the decency to appear unimpressed with his own heavy handedness. Last time it had made Tony frustrated; this time he was grateful for the twinge of recognition. “There must have been something that triggered that? What was it? A warning?” So he’d seen through it too – recognising the threat for what it was; not a genuine attempt to hurt him irreversibly there and then but a stark enough warning that he was able to.

“I think so,” Tony replied shortly, choosing to bypass all but the last question. He’d promised Chan already and could only muster the strength to talk through his research one more time that day.

“I should have seen this coming,” Mark said quietly, his own apparent guilt seeming to weaken his ability to notice Tony’s deflection. “I’m sorry it happened again on my watch. I’m sorry there’s still nothing we can do about it until the hearing. I - I’m just – sorry.”

“It’s no one’s fault but his, boss,” Tony murmured. _And maybe mine_ , he thought to himself before storing that prospect away for another day. The general didn’t need to be privy to that sort of thinking anyway.

“Speaking of the hearing,” Naird said, pointing at Chan as the two scientists rejoined them. “Courtesy of Doctor Chan, we may have a way to recover a copy of the control room footage to use in our argument. Provided that we accelerate the return of the crew on the moon by several months, that is.” Tony smiled genuinely for the first time, primarily amused by the general’s obvious and rather striking caveat to the supposed solution but then aiming a knowingly proud grin at Chan.

“I knew they hired you for a reason, Doctor Chan,” he commented, his overly formal use of the other man’s full title making Chan smirk slightly and Mallory’s mouth twitch. General Naird seemed clueless over his slightly teasing tone, still arguably preoccupied.

“If you’re back on this base in the next week I will have you locked in a cell so that you can make a full recovery there instead,” he said to Tony, the faltering in his ‘general’ tone the only indication that he was really saying _get well soon, take some time off._

“Yes, sir,” Tony lifted a hand in a half hearted salute and blinked his eyes closed tightly for a moment.

“Get some rest, Tony,” Naird instructed, quieter still, “We need you fighting fit to prepare for the hearing.” He patted Tony’s arm again and then tilted his head in the direction of the door, indicating that Adrian should follow him.

“You ready to go?” Chan asked softly once the room was deserted once more. He nudged his glasses up his nose, still looking quietly pleased at the general’s praise of his idea. Tony nodded tiredly, making a mental note to ramble endlessly about Chan’s continual stream of good ideas when he had the energy to thoroughly embarrass the other man with his attention.

“Let’s go home then,” Chan murmured, taking advantage of Tony’s seated position to pull his head onto his shoulder, carding his fingers through Tony’s hair. “And we can have that talk.”


	16. Double Agent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony confides in Chan. Chan confides in someone else.

Three days later, Doctor Chan was falling asleep at his desk. There were still calculations to be done, ensuring that the trajectories worked with the fuel they had left on the moon. It was all about picking the right day. Or it was until it had become both about that and keeping his eyes open long enough to figure it out.

“Trouble in paradise?” Mallory’s voice cut off another traitorous attempt from his slumping head to rest on the desk in front of him. Chan glanced in the vague direction of the voice and frowned as he blearily located the chief scientist. Doctor Mallory was closer than he thought and holding out a blurry shape that seemed to resemble glasses.

“Thanks,” Chan murmured, bringing the world back into focus and forcing himself to look back at the computer screen covered in maths that required much more of his brainpower than capacity currently allowed. The artificial light of the screen made his eyes burn slightly, even behind the lenses of his glasses. He frowned again, looking back at the unmoving Doctor Mallory. “What did you say?”

“It was merely an attempt at humour,” Adrian replied drily, his mouth twitching, “Lost on you completely. And, I suppose, an excuse to ask how Fuck Tony is getting on.”

Chan thought back to that morning and how he’d been shadowed going into the kitchen by the other man. He’d told him there was no need for both of them to be up early but Tony seemed firm in his intention to keep Chan company before he left for work. Or maybe he wanted Chan to keep _him_ company. Either way, the scientist had prepared himself for an argument if Tony claimed he was ready to go back to work. Tony had looked close to saying it on the doorstep as Chan headed out towards his car but his mouth had closed before the words escaped.

“He’s a stubborn asshole,” Chan muttered with reluctant amusement. It seemed he’d reached a point of exhaustion where his inhibitions evaporated.

“Ah, so better then?” Mallory asked, finally taking a seat at the adjacent desk. Chan looked around the room, noticing that it was empty. His scan concluded with the sight of Adrian observing him. “It’s late. People have gone home. A decision that you look like you would benefit from seriously considering.”

“He’s been saying he’s fine for the last two days,” Chan murmured, trying and failing to look distracted by the symbols that continued to bounce off of his brain ineffectively, “He’s not fine.”

“Naturally,” Adrian replied simply, “It would take even a soldier more time than this to recover from what happened. I suppose you’re still here because he won’t accept your help and you don’t like feeling useless?”

“Kind of,” Chan said, fuelling his next, guilt-ridden comment with a fraction of the frustration that Tony had been provoking. “There’s a reason why it happened. Beyond the hearing, I mean.”

“Oh yes?” Mallory asked, his tone quietly curious but overwhelmed by concern. Chan worried his bottom lip between his teeth and turned away for a moment, imagining the inevitable look of betrayal that Tony would execute flawlessly if he found out. “And he confided in you privately, I suppose.”

“He found out something about Kick that the general doesn’t want people to know,” Chan said, talking faster to get everything out all at once, ripping the band-aid from the hardly healed cut. “Years ago, before he got promoted, Grabaston shot his superior officer whilst they were under fire on an international assignment. He subsequently ‘rescued’ both that officer and the rest of the team. People called him a hero and he got awarded his position a few months later.”

“Tony found this out?” Adrian asked, not quite removing the tone of surprise from his voice.

“Yeah, digging up dirt on people is part of the job if you’re in media,” Chan replied wryly, his mind half returning to their conversation from three days before.

* * *

The sun was beginning to set as Chan pulled up outside his house. He glanced over at the passenger seat, giving himself a minute to absorb the sight of Tony, his eyes closed as he leant against the window. It still didn’t feel like Chan’s heart rate had recovered since he had rounded the corner and seen the other man lain out on the ground. Frustratingly, it still seemed hard to convince himself that Tony was definitely there, still breathing, in one piece – just about.

“Hey? Tony?” Chan murmured, shaking the other man’s shoulder lightly. Tony stirred, blinking slowly and almost looking surprised to find that it was still light outside.

Chan turned the engine off as Tony pushed himself upright, flexing his wrist as it sat back in the sling he’d been so pleased to be rid of. His eyes were trained on the horizon down the road, where the late evening heat of Colorado made the furthest visible point shimmer. Chan was quiet, observing him as he watched this nondescript point. That was when he started to talk.

He told Chan everything that the scientist would later relay to Doctor Mallory, his voice lubricated by a level of trust that it destroyed Chan to break. But even as he was talking, Chan knew this wasn’t something to keep between the two of them.

“And Tommy hasn’t made a move to get the story out?” Chan asked as Tony finished speaking. It was the first time Tony looked over at the driver’s seat, his expression already tending towards something that made Chan nervous.

“Not beyond the blog post,” he replied, “And that didn’t get much traction so-” he trailed off, glancing away again. They’d been sat in the car for some time, the confined space giving him plenty of opportunities to avoid Chan’s watchful gaze although Chan was reluctant to suggest they went inside, feeling Tony’s sense of safety in knowing that the two of them were alone.

“Why hasn’t he tried again?” He questioned, feeling his voice fade as he spoke, dread rising to cut off the question that didn’t need asking. He’d seen what Grabaston had threatened.

“He’s dead.”

“Jesus,” Chan exhaled, regardless of being prepared for the answer. “Tony, you need to talk to Naird about this. It’s dangerous.”

“Do I?” Tony asked slowly, “If your idea works we won’t need to use the information anyway.” Chan heard the more petulant excuse behind his words; Naird would have a field day if he found out Grabaston’s latest visit to the base was the result of information he hadn’t been made aware of, especially given his recent, poorly hidden flare-up of guilt surrounding the first incident.

“If,” he repeated pointedly, choosing not to call Tony out for bending the truth behind his objection, “And regardless, Grabaston knows what you’ve found out now. Even if you don’t use the information, how do you know – how do you know he won’t do _that_ again?” Tony was silent for a long while, managing to stay still for a new record time since Chan had started to really notice him. At the time, not long after their failed attempt to name a star after the president, Chan had found himself irrationally exacerbated at the other man’s constant need to be moving, his fidgeting always distracting the scientist from what he was meant to be doing. Now, faced with a Tony who stopped to contemplate things, he wished he could have the old, totally impulsive one back.

“I told him I didn’t think he’d do it,” he said eventually, glancing back over at Chan, “He called me self-absorbed or something but – I don’t think he’d want to go through the ordeal of covering something like that up unless he had to. I know I’m not super important but there’s no way Naird would accept whatever lie was made up. Think about it…”

“I don’t want to think about you getting killed over something that isn’t worth your life,” Chan shot back, his eyes instantly snapping shut regretfully at the sound of his own tone. “Sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry.” Chan focused back on Tony whose brow had furrowed unhappily. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just – you know what I’m saying, right? I’m not a soldier; no one can arrange for me to conveniently get killed while I’m at work. Unless I somehow rile up General Naird so much that he can’t take it anymore.”

“Tony,” Chan chastised, trying to remain serious but pausing to laugh very slightly, the sound quickly turning despondent, “You really won’t tell him?”

“It’s for the best,” Tony assured him pressingly, his gaze now unwavering, “He’s got enough to think about right now.”

* * *

Adrian was contemplative for a long time, leaning back in his chair and tilting his chin back to focus on the ceiling. He was quiet for so long, in fact, that Chan managed to blink his eyes back into motion, returning to the equations that littered his screen. At this point he was totally preoccupied, both with Tony and speculation over Doctor Mallory’s inevitable conclusion.

“Presumably Tony read this somewhere, in an account of the event,” he said eventually, sounding questioning but continuing his line of deduction without clarification. “The source never pursued an inquest? Can we rely on its validity?” Chan almost smiled, the question a perfect signifier that the older man was a well-practiced scientist.

“I think so,” he replied, convincing himself that keeping some of the details from Mallory lessened the betrayal that he felt he was continually committing. Besides, even the thought of saying that Tommy Scott was dead, of implying that the same outcome could fall on Tony’s shoulders, made him feel nauseous with worry. “I trust him.”

“There is a difference between trusting someone and believing the words they are saying, especially if they are not their own,” Mallory replied sagely, “I don’t doubt Tony’s abilities to find out this information, nor his commitment to using what he has found out for good but his accusation would be a weighty one.”

“You’re not seriously going to let him do it!” Chan was suddenly frustrated, his outburst meant as a question but sounding too sure of itself. Mallory merely raised an eyebrow as if silently challenging him to justify his spontaneous eruption.

“I’m worried something bad will happen to him if he decides to go public,” Chan admitted, far quieter now, “Even if he doesn’t put his name to it, Grabaston will know.”

“I’m still not sure why you’ve been working yourself into the ground here,” Doctor Mallory observed hesitantly, “Might you not be better at home, stopping Tony from doing something rash?”

“If the rocket doesn’t land, we’ll have nothing to use at the hearing,” Chan said monotonously, as if he’d walked the same logical path over and over already. “Tony will suggest using his information. We won’t have any other choice. And he’ll be putting himself at risk again.”

“We’re making good progress,” Adrian assured him, “The trajectories don’t need to be calculated tonight. We can assess our progress at the meeting with General Naird next week.”

“Do you think he should know too?” Chan asked, looking guilty all over again for suggesting it. Doctor Mallory looked at the frown that grew on Chan’s face at the thought of going behind Tony’s back for a second time, even if he looked as if he reluctantly knew the only answer. Mallory still wasn’t quite prepared to say it.

“If I feel that it would be wise to mention it in the meeting, I will do so,” he replied instead, “Perhaps it won’t be necessary.” Chan looked far more placated than he would have been if he’d heard the truth, choosing for once to take the reassurance blindly.

In an alternate reality, one in which Adrian put aside his concern for his second in command or perhaps if Chan chose to question an assurance he had his doubts about, their conversation concluded differently.

_Do you think he should know too?_

_Undoubtedly, yes. For Tony’s own safety and everyone else’s._

It was going to be a painful meeting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter kind of feels like filler, I wasn’t happy with it for ages and I’m still not entirely sure. But it does the job it needs to so it’s staying XD


	17. Enkulette

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony returns to work to attend the meeting. Doctor Mallory makes his decision.

When Chan asked for the third time if Tony was sure he wanted to go back to work on the same day as their scheduled meeting about the hearing, Tony felt the quiet nagging of suspicion start to bother him.

“It’s only been-”

“Ten days,” Tony completed Chan’s sentence, his reassuring smile falling short. Luckily, he was sure that Chan was more likely to put this down to his stress levels (through the roof) rather than an early sign of his childhood trust issues (recently at an all time low) returning.

Within a couple of minutes the rational side of his brain was laughing at how quickly he jumped to distrust. Chan dropped the subject, managing to convey a much more convincing expression of reassurance in his own smile as he swung his bag over one shoulder and cornered Tony for a fleeting kiss at the door.

In retrospect that morning and the car journey to the base were the highlights of Tony’s morning, the rest of it made spectacularly overcast by the events of the meeting. He didn’t see Chan again until mid-morning, finding him waiting outside the general’s office, looking as if he was reading one of the many unimportant plaques surrounding Brad’s desk. His fingers tapped restlessly against the file in his hand, only stopping to reposition his glasses, a learned action that Tony had come to connect with stress.

“Hey.”

“Hi,” Chan turned around, recovering quickly from his preoccupied surprise and smiling lopsidedly, his darting eyes making a subconscious assessment of Tony. “How are you doing?”

“Busy,” Tony summarised, perching on Brad’s desk and taking advantage of the other man not being present to admonish him.

“And your shoulder’s okay?” Chan asked, doing a terrible job of worrying subtly. Tony pushed himself back up and crossed the room, holding out the arm he was able to and pulling Chan’s head against his chest. He could hear the real question behind the casual conversation; _are you okay?_

“I’m fine,” he murmured into the other man’s hair. “I promise.” It felt good to mean his reassurances for once, finally feeling the benefit of spending some time away from the base. Of course, he wouldn’t admit this to Chan given the constant complaining that he could have gone back to work earlier which had characterised the last ten days.

“Good,” Chan replied quietly, stepping back and straightening Tony’s tie absentmindedly. His eyes still wouldn’t quite meet Tony’s, just drifting close for a moment as he smiled slightly. “I’m glad.”

The telltale drumbeat of footsteps signalled General Naird’s arrival, followed closely by Doctor Mallory. Both seemed to lose a fraction of their usual sternness upon reaching the more closed off room.

“Tony,” Naird nodded his head at the other man in greeting, his gesture almost the equivalent to the loose salute Tony chose to respond with. Chan smirked when Doctor Mallory’s mouth twitched from behind the general.

“Morning, sir,” Tony replied, a little more subdued than normal. Chan wondered briefly if he was considering telling the general about what he had found out for himself, secretly hoping this was the case. He’d had no indication from Mallory that the information was going to come up in the meeting although the older man’s silence on the matter had hardly been reassuring.

“Let’s get started,” Naird said, leading the way through the office doors. Chan followed, seeing Mallory pat Tony’s shoulder out of the corner of his eye.

“Good to have you back, Tony,” he said, clearly voicing what General Naird had likely wanted to say.

“Thanks, doc,” Tony replied, the upward lift in his voice making Chan smile to himself. It was frustrating though; those brief moments of respite so quickly gave way to the worry churning his stomach, creating new, terrible ways the meeting could possibly go for him to play out in his head.

“Do we have a confirmed date for the shuttle’s return?” Naird asked once they were seated, directing his question towards Adrian who sat in the middle between Chan and Tony.

“The most economical option fuel-wise would have a return date two days before the hearing,” Mallory replied impassively, his calmness setting Chan’s nerves even further on edge. “It is arguably the safest day to return.”

“Would that give us enough time to recover the tape?”

“The actual recovery will require less than a couple of hours,” Chan chipped in, “We just need access to the rocket; the transfer process should barely take any time at all.”

“Of course, the danger with leaving it so close is that we would be left with very few options if the footage was somehow corrupted or poor quality,” Mallory added, to Naird’s consternation.

“Right,” he murmured to himself, “At risk of sounding pessimistic, without that footage all we have is the work we’ve completed since the branch was opened. How would you honestly summarise the public opinion of Space Force so far, Tony?”

“Err, if we’re talking about the general public, they’ve been left in the dark over most things we’ve done so, besides the media we’ve put out there ourselves, people are pretty indifferent but leaning towards claiming this has all been a waste of money,” Tony replied, wrinkling his nose as he added to the negativity, “In terms of people who are aware of our work – we stranded astronauts on the moon and one of our only orbiting missions was destroyed within hours of launch so...”

“Not great, then,” Naird said lightly, exhaling a long breath.

“Not great,” Tony replied in agreement.

“So if we don’t get hold of that footage,” the general repeated again, “We have nothing to use to win the hearing. Grabaston will take over.” He had just enough hope left that he went to the effort of sounding questioning even as his expression suggested that he was stating facts. Chan felt Mallory’s eyes drifting over to him, meeting the older man’s gaze and seeing a preemptive apology there.

“There might be something we can do,” the chief scientist offered carefully. As he began to explain, Chan couldn’t bring himself to look anywhere but the desk, tracing the wood grain blindly as Doctor Mallory repeated what Tony had first told Chan. He didn’t need to see the other man’s reaction to know that this was already worse than the multiple scenes his brain had conjured up over the past week.

Tony had also kept his gaze fixed on the desk, eyes slowly closing as Mallory talked, the words washing over him making his brow furrow. He could feel Naird’s focus move sharply over to him, although the older man took his time before speaking in the silence that followed.

“Tony? Why didn’t you tell me this?” The general sounded mostly concerned although it was the hint of disappointment that Tony’s brain zeroed in on. His hands were clasped in his lap, eyes now directed towards them because he didn’t trust himself to look at any of the other men in the room without erupting. Chan had evidently told Mallory. Mallory had chosen to tell Naird. Naird was disappointed.

“I didn’t think you’d appreciate the angle,” he muttered eventually, letting his gaze flicker quickly upwards, still avoiding the weight of the eyes in the room. “It’s hardly the _honourable_ way to win this, is it?”

“You think I care about honour, right now?” Naird asked impatiently. The wooden desk creaked slightly; he only leant forwards like that when he needed someone to believe every word he was saying. His voice was rougher when he continued. “Grabaston walked in here and did what he did; he hit you when you were down, repeatedly. And you think I care about honour?”

“I don’t know,” Tony replied, his head still reeling whilst simultaneously dealing with the embarrassment of this conversation occurring in front of two bystanders. “I guess I just thought that he wouldn’t have this personal vendetta against all of us if I hadn’t taunted him about that when I was trying to distract him. And I know that was just something I said, without knowing what I found out was true but - it’s my fault we’re in this position. I needed to feel like I was doing something about it.”

“Tommy’s dead,” Chan ground out suddenly, his tone a perfect representation of the way his hands were surely grabbing the armrests of his chair.

“Chan, not now,” Tony bit back, feeling like he should be pleading with the other man but his anger making it sound heated. He felt Chan's eyes turn on him with an uncomfortable weight.

“Tony,” Mark warned, clearly not willing to let this go. “Chan?”

“Tommy’s dead,” the scientist repeated, sounding infinitely more upset. This was what made Tony glance over, guiltily relieved when he found that Chan’s gaze had lifted to the ceiling. “He was the soldier who wrote about what happened and Grabaston killed him. That’s what happens to people who find this out.” His eyes were back on Tony’s before the other man could look away, flashing with a desperation that stole Tony’s ability to breathe. He was on his feet before he knew it, shaking his head at Naird’s deep-set frown and trying to display his own desperation to just _get out_.

“Tony,” Doctor Mallory finally spoke up, his hand lifting as if he was going to try and hold him back. Tony didn’t think he could survive the brush of a hand against his arm in that moment.

“I can’t do this right now,” he mumbled, making it to the door without being called back. Chan said his name one more time, sounding so reasonable and imploring. Tony faltered but didn’t stop.

* * *

Chan replayed the last moments of that exchange over and over as he walked the unfamiliar route to Tony’s office. He’d stayed after the other man had left, heeding Mallory’s advice to give him time and seeing the stress written across Naird’s face as they still got no nearer to solving their problem, especially as he immediately ruled out using Tony’s information for the time being in case it put anyone in danger.

Tony worked down one of the long admin corridors, somewhere Chan had never had a reason to visit after his HR introduction during his first week. He wasn’t sure why he’d decided to torture himself by facing the inevitable argument that would follow his arrival; but the thought of another heavily silent car ride at the end of the day made him wish for his shift to never end. This was something he had to deal with now.

The door was ajar, affording him a view of the small office space. In true Tony fashion, the shelves were filled with what were essentially children’s toys: lego rockets and Star Wars characters making up a significant proportion of the trinkets. The door blocked his view of the desk and, by extension, Tony.

He knocked tentatively, hearing the falsely positive invitation to enter turn sour in Tony’s mouth as he saw who his visitor was. Chan hovered at the door, scared to see the possibly permanent shift in the way Tony looked at him and occupying himself instead with the cluttered desk. There were piles of paper all over the place, the top sheets covered in a myriad of colourful post-it notes, many of which were in a variety of shapes like speech bubbles. All of them were covered in handwriting that looked remarkably neat from his position at the door. His gaze paused on the potted plant that balanced on one end of the desk, settled on the one clear space on the table. He recognised it as one of the plants he’d no longer needed for his research a few weeks earlier. It had been in a tray of similar specimens, ready for the pots and soil to be reused, when Tony had asked to take one. Chan had partly expected to never hear about it again, assuming that it would be one of those little projects that Tony never fully directed his attention towards. But the leaves were still sleek and healthy, larger than they had been in the lab.

“Did you think I’d have killed it by now?” Tony asked quietly, having caught him looking. Chan’s focus shifted over to him, feeling irrationally guilty for assuming that even as they had more pressing issues to deal with.

“No, I-” he trailed off, sighing at the ground and forcing himself to speak evenly, “I’m really sorry. I couldn’t hear what had happened to Tommy and let the same happen to you…”

“And you thought telling Mallory would stop that?” Tony fired back instantly, “Or did you do that because you didn’t want to be the one who told Naird? Did you think I’d care less if you weren’t technically the one who told him?”

“No, I – I don’t know-”

“The three of you, in that room; you’re all I have right now, Chan! Naird keeps saying that we have to keep everything secretive and I’ve been relying on all of you because I can’t talk to anyone else,” Tony said, his voice rising as he sounded more and more desperate to make Chan understand. “I trusted _you_.” 

He stood up, moving past Chan and to the door, looking as if he was about to walk out. Chan released a breath he didn’t realise he was holding when he merely closed the door, his hand resting on the handle for some time.

“Then why didn’t you tell me as soon as you started researching?” Chan asked softly, not sure why this had even started to bother him.

“Because if it didn’t go anywhere, there was no use getting your hopes up,” Tony replied, looking away evasively.

“Really?” Chan challenged him, his disbelief at least drawing Tony’s eyes to his own, even if they were bright with unusual anger.

“Fine,” he muttered softly, his next words dangerously quiet. “Maybe it wasn’t that. Maybe I couldn’t deal with the idea that you knowing something like that would put you in danger. Maybe I knew I couldn’t handle seeing you getting hurt.” His volume had increased once more, frustration mixing with desperation in a toxic combination.

“And you think I could?” Chan almost matched him, throwing his hands up in the air, “You’ve brushed me off and told me you’re fine when you’re obviously not. You kept this to yourself for weeks even though it must have been stressing you out. I want to help you!”

“So you told Mallory?” Tony argued back, seeming to deflate as he returned to his chair. He ran his hand through his hair before saying anything else. “I told you I was fine because if I stopped for a second and admitted I wasn’t, I wouldn’t be able to come back here. I’d be useless to all of you for the hearing and I’d be distracting you from the work you need to be doing.”

“I keep thinking that if you’d told me before and I’d made you talk to Naird, you wouldn’t have been hurt a second time,” Chan admitted quietly, sinking into the other chair upon sensing that this was no longer a risky move. “I told you I wouldn’t let you get hurt anymore and then you did.”

“That’s not your fault!” Tony interjected incredulously, “You didn’t know he’d come back.”

“You said you trusted me,” Chan explained simply, “I broke my promise about that and then I told Mallory about this.”

“I could tell you were giving me the space I needed after the first time,” Tony said softly, “That was when I started researching. Because I knew you were letting me work through what I needed to so you wouldn’t try to stop me.” Chan’s exhalation turned into a slightly helpless laugh.

“I guess we both screwed up,” he conceded, still not quite shaking the guilt that worked away at him, “But really, I’m sorry. I wish I’d just told you I was going to Naird or Mallory instead of doing it without saying. Or I should have made you do it yourself.” He shifted his eyes back to the small potted plant, waiting for Tony’s response.

“I’m sorry as well. I got stuck in my own head and I didn’t think about how you might feel if I did something stupid. I decided I needed to do something to help because I felt responsible for getting Grabaston’s attention on us,” he replied, following Chan’s gaze and smiling very slightly. “I do think you need to admit that you thought I’d kill your plant.”

“Maybe I’m a little surprised it’s still alive,” Chan conceded, finally matching his expression.


	18. Regroup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony isn’t used to having so many people visit his office, especially not Mallory and Naird.

“Can I come in?”

Tony looked up at the question, surprised to see Doctor Mallory at the door. Like Chan, it was the first time he’d ever ventured into the administration area of the base, with the exception of Naird’s office, forcing Tony to sit and wait as he surveyed the room, bemusement occasionally playing across his face as he observed the general clutter.

“What can I do for you?” Tony asked, tapping his pen distractedly against the desk. He could almost feel the reluctance, or maybe awkwardness, that seemed to radiate from the other man as he sat down in the opposite seat.

“Is that one of my specimens?” He asked distractedly, unable to hide his eagerness to avoid whatever it was he’d come to say. Tony glanced at the plant, smiling very slightly.

“Rejected specimen,” he corrected, “Chan said I could have it. Is that what you came to ask?” He asked the obvious question if only to get Mallory back on track, the gesture seeming to do the trick as the other man looked troubled once more.

“I just thought you should know that I was the only person who decided to tell General Naird about what you had found out and I didn’t consult Doctor Chan because I had guessed he would be against any course of action that involved breaking your trust,” he said carefully although it was difficult to judge if his calculated tone was a result of his speech being well-practiced or if it was just his uncanny ability to sound clever at all times.

“Mmhmm,” Tony hummed in reply, comfortable in a guilty sort of way to feel like he had the upper hand in a conversation with the older man for once. He wondered if it would surprise the scientist to know that he had already been made aware of this information.

“I feel that I may have caused some tension between the two of you but I believe Chan was right to share what he knew with me,” Adrian continued as Tony forced his mouth into a serious line, “I can assure you that his decision appeared to come from a place of concern.”

“Okay,” Tony replied, feeling Mallory’s eyes narrow suspiciously. “Fine, we already talked about it.” The older man deflated a little, scratching the back of his neck and moving as if to stand up.

“Well, it appears my intervention is unnecessary then,” he said, pausing when Tony shifted forward in his chair intently.

“Hey, actually, I should probably thank you for telling Naird,” he interjected, flashing a sheepish smile as he spoke. Adrian sat back down, folding his arms.

“Probably?” He echoed, raising an eyebrow, “I think you got off very lightly with the general.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“He thought you would have confided in him about something like this,” Mallory continued, undeterred.

“I know,” Tony repeated with a sigh. “I meant it though; it feels like my fault and I’m used to sorting out my own problems.”

“You should get used to that not being the case,” Adrian retorted. It was probably the closest he would ever get to admitting he cared, something that Tony didn’t take lightly.

“I think I’ve been told that by two different people today now,” he said wryly, “Loud and clear, doc.”

“Chan,” Mallory guessed, watching as Tony nodded. “I always feel old when I go around giving people advice but I get the impression that you try and look after him so maybe let him return the favour every once in a while. For some reason he has decided he wants to put up with you so – let him put up with all of you.”

“What a lovely sentiment,” Tony said sarcastically, letting his attitude drop again briefly, “I feel very lucky. I get the impression he’s got a lot more on his plate dealing with me than I do with him.”

“You may be irritating,” Adrian began, indicating the start of another one of his slightly misshapen reassurances. “But I can assure you that you’re less disliked as a result of that than you might think.”

“Wow, thanks,” Tony replied, grinning to himself nonetheless. Adrian nodded his head with an equally sarcastic solemnity, suddenly looking as if he didn’t know how to get himself out of their unusually honest exchange. Tony didn’t feel that he would be much help, feeling similarly disoriented.

Thankfully, another knock at the door seemed to break the spell as Mallory got up, happy to be offered an excuse to leave. Tony couldn’t remember the last time people had actually visited his office and was even more surprised when it was the general who almost walked into Adrian on his way out.

“Doctor Mallory,” he said with a frown, “What are you doing here?”

“We were discussing some ideas concerning outreach in schools delivered by the science division,” Mallory lied smoothly, turning to Tony, “Thank you for your input, Tony.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Tony echoed, noting the almost apologetic expression on Adrian’s face as he clearly imagined the awkward attempts at reconciliation that Naird was about to unleash on him. Tony tracked Mark’s path to the now vacant chair, spinning his pen between his fingers as he waited.

“I needed to do something for myself,” he said quickly when Naird’s expression clearly dictated the tone of their conversation before any words were even said. He felt an urge to explain himself to get this reaction that Mallory had talked about over and done with. “You had a lot to be dealing with and I honestly didn’t think you’d want to go down that route. I just needed something – _anything_ – that gave me the upper hand on him.”

“I understand that,” Naird replied, looking surprised that it had taken no effort on his part to get Tony to talk. “But I would have liked to have been able to avoid the second incident with Grabaston…”

“That makes two of us,” Tony muttered drily.

“I know it might feel like I’m suffocating you after everything that’s happened but, especially on the grounds of the base, I have a responsibility to ensure your safety,” Naird said. There was something in his voice that made Tony pause, a thought lodging itself in his head and swiftly becoming persistent. He didn’t need to speak, fixing the general with an expression that conveyed everything it needed to in order to make a flicker of reluctance cross his face.

“Grabaston showed me the tape,” he admitted quietly, his lips pressing together into a thin, tense line as Tony let his head fall back against the chair, eyes trailing the desk as he exhaled slowly.

“All of it?” He asked eventually, realising upon speaking that he hadn’t left enough time to sound totally in control of his own voice. He coughed once, trying to somehow do it silently, as if there was a chance Naird hadn’t heard the wavering in his tone and might not notice his attempts to be rid of it either.

“Up until you arrived in the control room but, well, I was there at the time,” Naird rambled slightly, before ducking his gaze and summarising, “So yes, all of it.” Having seen Grabaston in person since and hardly leaving that particular altercation unscathed, Tony had thought he might be more immune to the nausea in his stomach that returned when he thought back to that evening. He was silent for some time, feeling Mark’s eyes quietly pressing him for some sort of response, simultaneously seeming patient enough to wait until the reaction could be a little less explosive.

For some reason, it was Major Baxter’s comments that suddenly filled Tony's head, doing nothing for the choking feeling around his throat and only exacerbating the steady knotting together of his insides. _It turns out we missed a real show._

“I’m sorry.” It was Naird who eventually spoke again, sounding all too patient and out of character. Tony found himself shying away from his tentative tone, only able to connect it to the phone calls with Erin that he’d occasionally eavesdropped on. It felt like the older man was taking some of the blame from Grabaston and unfairly allowing the guilt to rest on his shoulders.

“It’s not like Grabaston would have let you walk away,” Tony replied, directing his voice towards the desk when looking up felt like too much to ask of himself. “He wouldn’t have, would he?”

“People like him think generals should be able to sit through something like that without getting affected,” Naird said, in what Tony gauged was his way of saying _no, he wouldn’t_. “Kick knows I’m not like that; he did it to mock me… again.”

“There’s nothing wrong with feeling some human emotions,” Tony muttered, finally diverting his gaze from the desk and lifting one corner of his mouth. “Even if you’re a soldier robot.” Naird’s mouth lifted slightly and then it was his turn to look away and awkwardly survey the room.

“When all of this is sorted out I will make sure that the footage returns to our base so this can’t happen again,” he promised gruffly. “And with a bit of luck the recovered recording from the rocket will lead to some sort of disciplinary action.”

“How likely do you think that is?” Tony couldn’t stop the question from escaping, nor could he hold back the quiet desperation in his voice.

“Unless the footage is almost unusable, I can’t see how it can be overlooked at the hearing,” Naird replied honestly, “I don’t need to have been made to watch that section in the control room to remember what it looked like. Even if he could spin it that he was authorised to use some degree of force to take over from me, no one would be able to argue that he didn’t unnecessarily attempt to use your injuries to influence me. That goes beyond using reasonable force, surely.”

“I can’t wait for this to be over,” Tony said, aiming to return to his over exaggerated persona but falling short. “When the biggest concern of my day is whether or not you approve a tweet I’ve written, I’ll be happy.”

“I will be sure to remind you of this conversation when you throw a tantrum in my office,” Mark promised, a little too wooden to be entirely comfortable with where they had left the conversation. It was palpable, in the way he remained seated even when they had appeared to have finished talking, in the way he laced his fingers together in his lap and pulled them apart repeatedly. It was almost as if he expected Tony to be on the same wavelength as him, to know what it was that still played on his mind. “Does it still make you uncomfortable, talking about it?”

“Err, it’s not my favourite thing,” Tony attempted to keep his tone light, knowing that one word would shatter that façade. “Why?” He heard the shift himself instantly and winced at his own doubt.

“I suppose I didn’t expect you to stand in front of him and talk so highly of me,” Naird said stiffly, wrinkling his nose and then setting his mouth back into its regimented line, “I wanted to thank you for that without making you think about something that makes you - anxious or - afraid.”

“Well, you have your moments,” Tony replied, reflecting Mark’s relief back at him when the room felt significantly more free of tension. “I did mean what I said. I just hope the people at the hearing see it too.”

“I hope so too,” Naird agreed, unable to mask a flicker of doubt even as his posture returned to its usual standard. “I hope so too.”


	19. Base Camp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night before the launch is likely to be a sleepless one. Comfort comes from likely (and unlikely) sources

_T-minus 6 Days to Hearing_

“Relax,” Tony murmured, “It’s not going to suddenly start ringing.” Chan glanced over from his phone distractedly before shifting closer to Tony as they sat in bed, away from the nightstand and the phone that he was still waiting to hear a peep from.

“But what if-”

“You quadruple checked everything with the crew before we left,” Tony soothed, wrapping an arm around the other man’s shoulders, in part to comfort him but mostly to keep him from checking his phone again.

“We can’t afford to have a delay,” Chan said, burrowing his head into the gap between Tony's head and shoulder, deflating with a long breath. “I don’t know how I’m meant to survive the next few days.”

“We’re gonna take it one at a time,” Tony replied, repeating what he had told him every day for the last week. The science division, or those who were trusted to be working on their mission, had been stretched as thinly as they could without being physically unable to handle their responsibilities. Chan had come home after every shift looking somehow more exhausted than he had the day before. Tony couldn’t imagine how much work they were having to do; he was busy enough with the continual effort to cover up basically everything that was happening, at least until the hearing that was.

“I’m going to hibernate for so long after this,” Chan murmured, his breath heating Tony’s neck as he spoke. Tony kissed the top of his head, smiling against his hair for a moment at the thought of everything being over. He tried to forget that these were fantasies he was coming up with, that they were far from inevitable. There was too much resting on the rocket launch; he felt it keenly despite not being responsible if something went wrong and people got hurt in the process. That was another thing Chan had to contend with.

“Captain Ali is a good pilot,” Tony said, knowing the comment would seem out of the blue but fairly certain that Chan needed to hear it. “She’s gone over the protocol so many times over the past few days. And she knows what she’s talking about. _She_ says the setup looks okay.”

“I just have to accept that I’m not going to believe that until the rocket is in orbit,” Chan muttered, rubbing at his eyes beneath his glasses, “Or probably until it’s actually arrived back on Earth. And no one’s hurt or dead and the footage actually helps.” He trailed off with a groan, muffling the end of his sentence in Tony’s shirt.

“All those times when we eat lunch and you talk about the work you’re doing,” Tony began quietly, rubbing his thumb over Chan’s hand and smiling when the other man’s fingers interlocked with his own. “The entire time, I’m thinking about how clever you have to be to do your job. And how clever you have to be to have got the qualifications you need to do your job. And how-”

“Okay,” Chan interjected, a sleepy smile crossing his face as his head emerged from its cocoon. He settled back against Tony’s side and sighed again, at least sounding more content. “I’m still worried.”

“Everyone is,” Tony reassured him, “But there’s nothing we can do until we see what happens. That’s the problem with scientists: you always want to be in control of everything.”

“Says the man with manager in his job title,” Chan teased with a smirk. His eyes were drooping every time Tony talked, the reverberations of his voice tempting him towards sleep.

“It’s going to be fine,” Tony whispered, hoping that he would believe some of his own affirmations, “We’ve earned a good outcome.” He glanced down at Chan’s closed eyes, marvelling at how the stress was erased from his face during sleep. He took the other man’s glasses off carefully, placing them to one side and settling back down.

It was hard to get to sleep when Chan was sat against his side, using his shoulder as a pillow but, at risk of sounding hypocritical, Tony didn’t expect to be getting much rest.

* * *

“Dad?” The voice finally penetrated the bubble Naird had formed around himself on the porch, infected with an impatience that suggested it wasn’t the first time he’d been addressed. He ducked his head briefly, aiming a stream of air from his pursed lips to his clasped hands and then turning to look at Erin.

“Hey, bug,” he said, quickly realising he wouldn’t be able to play this off as mild distraction, at least judging from the teenager’s folded arms and raised eyebrows. He hoped more than anything that these warning signs didn’t precede another outburst that was bound to end in an argument.

“What’s wrong, Dad?” She asked again, stepping out in a hoodie zipped over her pyjamas. She glanced up at the night sky for a moment and then leant on the railing alongside him. “I thought you said you needed to be at work early tomorrow.”

“I do,” Mark replied softly, letting his eyes wander around the cul-de-sac to avoid the steady, teasing disapproval in her gaze. He could hear her calling him a hypocrite, mentally listing every time he’d made her go to bed early if she needed to wake up before her usual alarm. He smiled ever so slightly at every eye roll that came to mind when he remembered her calling him old and boring and stuck in his ways as a solider.

“Having a routine is important,” she said eventually, lowering her voice into an impression he would never concede was oddly accurate. “So, what’s going on?”

“You know how we had a talk a little while ago about how I was going to be needed at work more often? And I said I needed you to be patient with me?”

“Yeah,” Erin said, her forehead creasing with an unusual level of concern. “Has something else happened?”

“No,” Mark murmured, looking away down the street again and setting his expression with grim determination, “But, one way or another, that’s not going to be the case anymore soon. And what happens tomorrow is probably going to give me a pretty good idea of what happens next.”

“I thought soldiers said everything in the simplest way possible,” she quipped in return, the sound of her frown never leaving her voice. “You’re being cryptic, Dad.” Mark smiled apologetically, exhaling a short breath as he tried to come up with an accurate summary of everything he’d kept from her.

“You know how we got a crew to the moon?” He began, watching her nod out of the corner of his eye, looking perplexed at being asked about something that was common knowledge. “There was some tension around that and I ignored direct orders at one point so they sent someone to relieve me. His intervention caused some – complications. There have been a lot of complications. But, long story short, there’s a hearing in a week to determine the future of Space Force and we’re starting to bring the crew back home tomorrow so I really need that to go well.”

“It sounds like the only things that have gone wrong were the other guy’s fault,” Erin pointed out, shrugging nonchalantly, “If you’ve made good decisions, like you normally do, what have you got to worry about?”

“I wish it was as simple as that,” Mark replied with a dejected half-smile. “I might have been able to rely on that a couple of years ago but this administration has been – challenging.”

“I thought you didn’t get political,” she retorted, although her curiosity to hear him say more betrayed her. “Do you not just follow what you’re told? Whoever’s in charge gets the final say, right?”

“Normally,” he agreed, “Although lately that’s been getting harder.”

“Why now?” Erin asked, tilting her head to one side. 

“Because I can push my own opinions away and follow instructions but it’s harder when the choice is between doing what you’re ordered to and protecting the people you work with.”

“Are _you_ going to be okay?” Mark winced at how young Erin sounded then. There was a reason that Maggie would normally tell him to leave his work at the door, especially when it got messy. He supposed Erin was old enough to understand some of his difficulties a little more by now but it didn’t stop the raw worry in her voice from making his heart ache.

“I’ll be fine, bug,” he promised, finding it far easier to muster a smile when motivated by the need to settle the clouded expression he saw on her face. “Come on, it’s a school night. I don’t want you falling asleep in math because I kept you up late.”

“I don’t mind talking like this sometimes,” she said softly, heading towards the door without arguing nonetheless. She stood in the doorway, on the threshold between this serious conversation and their usually more light hearted subject matter. “Remember to actually go to sleep too. You probably shouldn’t be falling asleep in the middle of a rocket launching.” Mark smiled again, nodding his head in a silent promise.

“Night, bug.”

“Night, Dad.”

He stayed outside for a few minutes after hearing her socked feet pad across the floor inside, the sound of her bedroom door clicking shut just reaching him. The return of the nighttime silence was less comforting than it had been before, pushing him to retrieve his phone from his pocket and observe it indecisively for a moment.

The screen read 10:23; probably not so late that he’d be waking someone if he did call. Especially not when that someone had the same reasons to be delaying the inevitability of tomorrow.

“I thought you’d be awake.” Adrian picked up on the second ring; his tone on the phone, although slightly flatter, was appropriately dry.

“You know me,” Mark said, his mouth curving upwards at the other man’s remark, “Generals never sleep.”

“Of course, there’s always another mistake to be preparing for,” Adrian replied, faux seriously. Mark listened to his steady breathing interweaving with the static on the line, suddenly unsure of why he’d phoned. Normally, Mallory would jump on him for something like this, easily suspicious, but instead he began talking again. “If it’s words of reassurance you’re looking for, I may not be the best source of them this evening.”

Mark could relate the subtle weariness in the other man’s tone to his disposition throughout the day. Every time Mark had stopped by the control room, which was unusually frequently, Adrian had either been pacing the room, his hands in his pockets and eyes following his own feet as he spoke, or leaning against one of the desks, arms folded and deep in thought. Where he would normally have a wry smile to offer Mark in these situations, he had been unreliable in even noticing the other man’s visits.

This had not at all been reassuring which was why Mark couldn’t work out why he had chosen Adrian to phone. Maybe it was just because he didn’t have anyone else to talk to who knew their predicament so intimately. Or maybe they had transcended the phase of their relationship in which one looked to the other for encouragement and could now wallow together in shared worry.

“It has to work,” he mused out loud, catching his fingernail on a slightly raised chip of paint on the wooden railing and beginning to absentmindedly pick away at the flake. “I know we’ve discussed using the footage as a way to overturn the result of the hearing but Grabaston’s been ahead of us every step of the way. If we don’t win the first time, he’ll be able to keep us out permanently.”

“Possibly,” Adrian replied, sounding more as if he agreed wholeheartedly but didn’t want to say so.

“Not to mention the several lives that are in our hands as soon as that rocket launches,” Mark continued.

“There’s that too,” Adrian agreed again, “I see that your intention wasn’t to offer me any moral support either then.”

“Sorry,” Mark apologised ruefully, hearing the sardonic smile in Mallory’s voice. “I’ve been told that my character makes me a poor choice for emotional support.”

“I wonder who said that,” the other man replied, the following silence giving way to a slight creaking as if he had leant back in his chair. “We’ve done everything we can.”

“That isn’t massively comforting if it all blows up in our faces,” Mark said, unable to keep the bitterness from his tone. “Christ, you know I thought this job was going to be a joke when I was given it. You make four-star general and they say you’re in charge of _Space Force_. Boots on the moon by 2024 – I thought I wouldn’t even last that long so my entire role would be the most ineffectual because I’d have had nothing to contribute.”

“It certainly has taken a surprising turn,” Adrian murmured. “A little more exciting than you were expecting, I suppose.” He sounded emphatically sarcastic, maybe even tending towards the frustration that Mark had allowed to leak out.

“I’ve seen exciting,” Mark said, numerous encounters springing to mind, “I was happier to leave all of that to the younger soldiers, settle down a bit.”

“I don’t think you’re ever going to be satisfied _settling down a bit_ ,” Adrian replied, sounding strangely fond. “It’s not in your character.” Mark huffed out a laugh, bringing his finger up to his face to observe the tiny flakes of paint that had lodged in his nail.

“I don’t know what I’ll do if this goes south,” he mused. “To be honest, I don’t know why I’m even thinking about it now. There’s plenty of other things to be more imminently concerned over.”

“I’m taking the view that it isn’t worth thinking about at all,” Adrian said candidly, “I never expected to get the job in the first place.”

“Too old?” Mark joked lightly. Adrian’s exhalation at least sounded partially amused.

“An unlikely fit with the current government,” he returned, pausing briefly. “Especially since I’m basically against the ethos of Space Force. Still, I wouldn’t mind continuing to be in a position where I can do something about that.”

“You’re probably right about not giving it too much thought,” Mark conceded.

“Probably? How generous,” Adrian muttered, another smile evident in his tone.

“I imagine it’s a bad idea if both the head of the base and the chief scientist are too exhausted to take charge tomorrow,” Mark said eventually, when another silence stretched out for some time. Adrian’s chuckle filled his ear, the unusually warm sound comforting.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he replied, back to his usual disregard for acknowledging big events, as if tomorrow was any other day.

“Good night,” Mark said, standing again for a moment as the dull beeping tone replaced Adrian’s voice. It joined the chorus of crickets and the warm breeze flurrying past the house. Like any other night.

Mark blinked harshly, feeling his eyes aching as they protested his aversion to going to bed. As soon as it was all over, he was trying to forget his conversations with Erin and Adrian. On any normal sleepless evening he’d be stood outside on his own, breathing the same air, hearing the same sounds. 

If he forgot talking to them, it was just any other night.


	20. Singularity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They’ve been locked on a crash course with the launch for some time. The inevitable collision is coming...

_T-minus 5 Days to Hearing_

The control room was unusually silent given its larger than normal population. The middle row of desks was entirely occupied, with Doctor Mallory standing in the central walkway, occasionally pacing restlessly, sometimes actually walking over to a computer to check something. General Naird was wisely keeping quiet, happy to stand back and only become involved when he was required to use his authority to begin the launch. He tried to convince himself that this was a selfless decision to give the scientists space to work and not the selfish choice to distance himself from the potential disaster.

He looked away frequently, taking advantage of the glass doors to become a spectator to the normal events of the base. That thin boundary between them felt like something far more insurmountable in reality; as if either side could only press one hand to the glass and look in on the other like visitors to an aquarium. There was a disconnect there, a stark difference in understanding and priority that was steadily becoming irreconcilable. Outside of the control room was the tempting manifestation of normality, flaunted to the people who could do no more but watch it happen, out of their grasp.

Duncan stood on the brink, his back to the control room as he stood guard. It was hard to tell if he was there to keep others out or the unfortunate few in. SecDef had cleared the return to Earth surprisingly easily under the condition that as few people as possible were involved in covering up this mission that had gone so wrong. He’d emphasised the hearing again to Naird as if he thought the general might need even more encouragement not to screw up. Strangely, he hadn’t mentioned the safety of the crew, a fact that Mark was much more preoccupied by when he wasn’t trying to completely forget what was happening.

He could imagine the sound of conversation that the doors also shielded them from, the clinking of glasses and plates from the canteen nearby. But thinking about that made the tense silence in the control room all the more noticeable and somehow, as if it wasn’t intolerable already, even more unbearable.

He tore his eyes away from the glass after losing count of the number of times he’d sought solace in the view, forcing there to be some sense of finality, persuading himself not to look behind him again. Tony and Brad were hovering like they usually did towards the back of the room, uncomfortably quiet and not even trying to rile each other up. Tony’s hand rubbed unconsciously over his bandaged wrist, shoulder occasionally drawing circles in the air as if the familiarity of everything was bringing back the sensation of being in pain. His forehead was pinched, a fact that he’d probably hoped would have remained concealed by the low light of the room. After all, he’d been trying to seem upbeat since he’d trailed in after Chan that morning.

The scientist in question must have reached a point where he was too busy to look outwardly nervous. Prior to this his hands had tapped restlessly on the keyboard in front of him, never pressing a key, even when he wasn’t required to be typing. Captain Ali had taken a leaf out of Tony’s book, rather more successfully putting on a brave face but her attempts to lighten Chan’s mood fell noticeably flat.

Adrian was someone else who wouldn’t be tempted into cracking a smile. Maybe it was just a chief scientist thing (although Naird suspected that it was more the weight of responsibility that had landed on his and Chan’s shoulders). Naird knew Adrian had to be the one to call the shots, seeing the other man working himself up to perform his role, arms crossed and then loose at his sides, the pattern repeating itself over and over.

“Is everyone secure, Captain?” He asked eventually, turning to face the screen that was filled with Angela’s face, resting a hand on Chan’s desk; to steady himself, Naird mused, or maybe Chan.

“The crew is prepared for launch,” Ali replied crisply, too calm for someone who had never seen combat. Naird was impressed, making a mental note that was unlikely to stick in his current state of mind that she should be promoted if he was still in a position to do so in a week’s time. 

“General?” Adrian prompted, finally glancing over his shoulder and giving a short nod, the full extent of his reassurance.

“Is everyone happy?” Naird asked, surveying the uneasy room once more. He knew he wouldn’t normally ask, putting aside his pride to acknowledge that the question was designed to give him a safety net. If everyone else had agreed with his decision, they’d played a part in making it. Unfortunately, if everything went wrong, he knew this would be no comfort at all.

“We’re tilting a little but still under reasonable conditions to launch,” Chan read out from the display, his voice level as his hands returned to that fidgeting state from earlier, brushing his glasses up his nose needlessly. The other scientists responded with similar sentiments, each of them clearing the launch. Adrian added his own agreement with another wordless nod, stepping back to stand in line with Mark.

“Happy?” Naird checked again, quiet enough for the question to only be for the man next to him.

“Now or never,” Adrian replied which wasn’t exactly a response to the same question but motivated Mark all the same.

“You are cleared for launch, Captain Ali,” he raised his voice for the rest of the room, mustering the tone of a general that he had half-expected to desert him. He swallowed drily as soon as the words were out of his mouth. “We wish you a safe return.”

“Thank you, sir,” Angela replied, her eyes shifting away from the monitor to check something. “We are commencing the launch sequence now.”

It’s funny how ten seconds can be stretched into a warped form of eternity.

10…

Adrian’s hands clasped together at his back as he rocked on his heels, lifting his chin with a stubborn determination and fixing his gaze to the screen.

9…

Chan’s eyes danced across the screen in front of him, fuelled by restless paranoia. The numbers were fine but he couldn’t remind himself of that enough times. They were twenty percent of the way there, giving him just enough time to glance over his shoulder.

8…

Tony’s eyes shifted from the screen to his fleeting gaze almost instantaneously as if he felt them pulling him in. His mouth lifted at one corner in an expression that said _we’ve done everything we can_ and not _it’s all going to be fine_. Chan took what encouragement he could from that, knowing that what he’d needed – Tony goofily giving him a thumbs-up or having to turn away from an argument with Brad to acknowledge his stare – was too much to ask.

7…

Naird exhaled his first breath since giving the command. He stared at the wall-sized screen so intently that the rest of the room seemed to darken around him. It was hard to remember blinking, focusing so firmly that time seemed to stop in fits and bursts that were out of his control. He couldn’t decide if he’d rather it passed in an instant or lasted forever.

6…

For Adrian, ignorance was never going to mean bliss. His hands emerged from behind his back, tightening the knot in his tie and drifting close to adjusting his glasses. He schooled his restless fingers, lacing them back together at his front and trying to stand still. He knew it was a psychological phenomenon, feeling the seconds draw out painfully, but his awareness had no effect on the sluggish second hand of the clock on the opposite wall.

5…

Tony tried to distract himself. He let his mind stray for a moment towards the fantasy of no longer having to contend with everything that stood in his way of having a normal, average life. It didn’t quite dull his awareness of Brad’s occasionally drifting eyes. He’d felt the older man watching him with a concerned curiosity for the entirety of that morning and, with hindsight, probably the last month or so. He was one of the people who saw behind the façade he’d tried to slip back behind since returning to work. It hadn’t stopped his usual attempts to rile Tony up but they both seemed to engage in those conversations with a different aim – not to annoy the other person but to provide a sense of normality. The loss of that now pulled at a spike in his anxiety.

4…

They were long past halfway there. Chan had rested his chin on firmly clenched hands, knowing that there was nothing he could do but watch. No button on the expensive control panels surrounding him would have an effect anymore, leaving him to watch Angela’s display of concentration. When they’d left Earth he’d been impressed that she’d handled the launch with the crew chatting away in the background, threatening to unbuckle themselves or announcing the appearance of their pet bird. This time everyone was quiet, leaving her to report read-outs without the frequent interruptions which had made their first launch atypical. It was a situation that Chan had never imagined himself wishing to return to. At least he knew that one ended well.

3…

Naird suppressed the urge to close his eyes. It felt like a childish response, to be so desperate to never fully experience everything spin out of control. He doubted it would help anyway; the darkness behind his eyelids would only encourage his overactive mind to simulate the rattling of the rocket on the screen, the smell of fuel, the roar of an unreliable engine. It was too similar to going down in a plane and if his heart hadn’t been pounding from the present conditions already, an unwelcome reminder from the past would have got him to that state just fine.

2…

The camera aboard the rocket shook with the force of the vibrations. The crew was lost in a blur of shaky footage, the data hopefully fluctuating a lot less. Chan displaced his glasses anxiously, the loss of clarity in his own vision no real deficit when Angela was barely visible in the first place. Tony rested his hands on the table in front of him, leaning on it hard and screwing his eyes closed for less than a second before his focus was lifted back to the screen. Adrian’s palms had pressed together, lifted to rest beneath his nose. Mark could see him out of the corner of his eye, knowing better than to assume he was praying. He’d never been one for religion either although the concept of having blind faith in something that could fix the results of the launch in their favour seemed suddenly appealing.

1.

There was nothing they could do.


	21. Reentry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fate of the rocket and its valuable cargo is decided...

_T-minus 2 Days to Hearing_

From the appearance of the control room, it would be almost impossible to judge that seventy two hours had passed. Everything was eerily familiar; Adrian pacing, Mark standing back, the row of scientists only breaking the silence to report a reading.

The sombre mood had been a near constant for the last few days, broken only for a short period of time three days earlier…

* * *

_T-Minus 5 Days to Hearing_

3…

2…

1.

The cameras affixed to the interior of the rocket were shuddering violently with the force of the engines. The view on the screen was a kaleidoscope of colours, shifting constantly and making it impossible to distinguish one blurred shape from another.

Adrian’s clasped hands dropped back to his sides, his brow furrowing. Mark took some consolation in the nature of his expression being investigatory and not concerned. His mouth was pressed into a firm line and he looked reluctant to break his silence.

“Readings?” He asked eventually, dragging his attention away from the screen and glancing at Chan.

“Stable,” Chan muttered, his own gaze never leaving his monitor. “Good.”

The uneasiness settled over them once more, falling like a second snowstorm to erase all evidence of the short conversation. Mark tapped his foot against the ground, simultaneously impatient and still unsure if he wanted to know the outcome. He didn’t claim to understand the science and had no idea if they’d reached the cut-off point for anything catastrophic to happen. In fact, he was still holding out hope that such a line existed and that it was indeed coming up for them in the near future.

“We have achieved a stable orbit of the moon, sir,” Captain Ali eventually said, her voice calm as if she hadn’t just gone for a ride on the world’s most makeshift space shuttle and survived the first leg, as if the contents of her report wouldn’t trigger the largest collective experience of relief imaginable.

“Chan?” Adrian clarified. Mark suppressed the skip in his chest that Angela had provoked, forcing himself to hold out for just one more second. Just until Adrian was happy.

“Yeah,” Chan said faintly, wheeling back in his chair as if the distance from his monitor would give him some clarity or perspective. He looked up at Adrian and smiled tentatively, his voice firmer. “Yeah.”

“We’ve done it?” Naird prompted, unable to keep the questioning inflection from his tone. Adrian still looked thoughtful and Chan had only a flicker of achievement on his face, largely dominated by disbelief.

“Well, really it’s the reentry that will be the problem,” Mallory said eventually, his dry honesty undercut by the growing, gratuitous grin on his face. It was a well-known fact that he rarely looked so openly pleased and the room seemed to take this as their cue to erupt, the applause and cheers loud despite the lacking number of spectators.

“Oh, shut up.” Mark leant closer to talk to Adrian above the noise, unable to stop a similar smile crossing his own face. Adrian shrugged loosely, still looking too proud for the time being to seriously consider his own statement.

“One thing at a time,” he said instead, a simple nod in Mark’s direction constituting the return of his quiet reassurance. The tension in the general’s posture loosened fractionally at the gesture, affording him maybe two days of respite before the weight of the next problem forced him to tighten his muscles and shoulder a world of problems once more.

He spun in a slow circle on the spot, the corners of his mouth only pulling higher at the sight of this fantastical celebration realised. How Chan and Tony shared a grin across the room, the latter lifting one hand in an almost certainly sarcastic thumbs-up gesture that made Chan’s expression spill wider across his face. How even Brad, who definitely didn’t know the stakes like some of them did, looked overjoyed, if not at what had happened then at the reaction it had provoked around the room. From the other side of the glass, Duncan had turned around, catching Mark watching him and saluting cheerfully.

Maybe the rest of the base seemed to be on a different planet nowadays. Maybe they didn’t share this high because they hadn’t seen the lows. But Duncan was on the other side looking in with a bright expression on his face and it made Mark feel that the lines were starting to blur back together again.

* * *

_T-minus 2 Days to Hearing_

Tony startled at the sudden pressure on his shoulder, dragging his eyes away from the front of the room to look at the hand there and then flickering to Naird’s face. Seemingly satisfied, he refocused on the screen.

“It’s going to work,” Mark said firmly. Tony twitched discontentedly; without Adrian’s reassurances to convince him of this fact, it sounded like a false promise.

“The hearing’s tomorrow,” he replied eventually, his tone turning dry but lined with a continual worry. “It has to work.” Mark accepted this with a short nod, squeezing Tony’s shoulder momentarily and then withdrawing.

“It’s going to work,” he repeated quietly, settling for the short nod he got in response. He returned to Adrian’s side, letting the scientific jargon fly over his head and relying on the man beside him to articulate any problems in basic English.

“Ready for descent,” Chan said without looking up, “Captain Ali, manual control will be handed back to you for the landing.”

“Understood,” Angela replied, her face back on the big screen and the image considerably more stable. Even the crew had regained some of their unflappability, it seemed, inane chatter just about audible through her channel.

“How do you like our odds now?” Mark asked out of the side of his mouth, keen to keep both the question and answer between him and Adrian.

“Well, none of the last minute repairs have broken yet,” the other man replied, tilting his head as if looking perceptive would detract from his usual wry performance. “We’ve made it back to a stable Earth orbit.”

“I thought reentry was the issue,” Mark interjected. Adrian smiled faintly, the expression not comforting.

“I was trying to be reassuring,” he retorted, “Taking a leaf out of your insufferably optimistic book, as it were.” He shook his head to himself, aiming a muttered comment towards the floor. “Won’t be trying that again.”

“What’s the procedure here?” Mark asked, choosing to ignore the previous response.

“We have an automatic reentry system that is triggered remotely,” Adrian said, clearly skipping the technical details, “It will begin descent at an appropriate time to position the shuttle adequately for Captain Ali to manually pilot and land at the base.”

“We don’t want that to go wrong then,” Naird said drily. Adrian hummed in agreement, readjusting his glasses.

“It would certainly make our time sensitive mission all the more time sensitive,” he remarked. “Luckily, landing conditions are ideal today so provided that reentry goes well and the system actually positions the shuttle correctly, Captain Ali should have no issues.”

“You know, out of that selection of potential problems, Captain Ali’s ability to fly was probably already lowest on my list,” Naird informed him, backtracking when Adrian raised an eyebrow and looked unimpressed. “But I appreciate the – attempt to remain optimistic.”

From the back of the room, Tony stared at the front screen with mixed emotions. He couldn’t quell the insistent voice in his head that said a successful landing didn’t guarantee anything except the reopening of old wounds in the form of the control room footage. He wondered what it would be like at the hearing if he had to watch the after effects of what had happened to him like a helpless bystander. It hadn’t crossed his mind yet that his own memory of that altercation was hazy, shrouded in an unpleasant layer of discomfort that he wasn’t thrilled about reliving.

It was frustrating, that this had been his internal response to Chan’s positivity that morning. He couldn’t pull the other man’s mood down with him and had settled for nodding along and remaining as neutral as possible. It wasn’t as if he wanted the reentry to go wrong (of course he didn’t; his own discomfort was worth the lives it would save) but what was sure to follow undermined the success he anticipated feeling.

It was amongst the storm of dissatisfaction in his mind that he registered the descent beginning. Angela’s face was a picture of concentration, her lower lip invisible as she pressed her mouth together tightly. He kept his focus directed upwards, faintly aware of Naird glancing back to look at him briefly. The general had a way of knowing when there was something on his mind but, maybe fortunately for Tony, a complete inability to broach the subject. That was what the reassurance from earlier had been about; a terribly disguised acknowledgement that there was something bothering Tony.

But there was no point dwelling on that when the sides of the rocket were beginning to burn orange, flames licking at the metal exterior and miraculously getting no further. The crew was landing in the roughest DIY project imaginable but it was working.

“Internal temperature is down,” someone reported from along the row of scientists. That was good. No one was getting burnt to a crisp. Yet.

“Location is what we were expecting,” another voice clarified, “Manual control should be available in a few seconds.”

Tony watched Mark tilt his head to talk to Adrian, occupying himself with attempting to read their lips. It was a question about whether things were going to plan and a nod in reply. Tony felt less out of place seeing the man in charge of the base having to ask obvious questions.

“I have regained control, sir,” Angela said suddenly, “Bearing is good for the base. We should be arriving in ten minutes.” It was the second time her factual reports held the news that unplugged the dam in the room. The celebrations were slightly more muted, everyone aware that the rocket hadn’t quite returned yet but, again, Doctor Mallory’s palpable relief served as people’s barometer.

“Well done,” Naird said, not quite as stiff as normal and with a hint of praise that wouldn’t normally escape in a public conversation. He turned to Adrian and Chan and then to the rest of the scientists. “Good work everyone. This has been a hard few weeks but you have done Space Force proud. This mission may be seen as a failure in many people’s eyes but I count it as a victory, if only because it has shown the ability of this team to pull together when they needed to.”

Tony nodded his head approvingly at the general when his gaze found his own, putting aside his doubt for a moment to appreciate a surprisingly competent speech on Naird’s part. He would never admit out loud that it settled the nerves in his stomach a little, nor that it prompted the first flicker of achievement to boost his mood.

The last few days seemed to be the perfect antidote to an energetic celebration. Captain Ali reported their approach to base a few minutes later, the cameras at the landing strip allowing the control room to watch the successful touchdown. And with that everyone seemed untethered briefly, as if they’d collectively woken up from a dream at the same time but it hadn’t quite sunk in that they’d ever been asleep.

“Right,” Tony heard Naird say, the words hardly lost beneath the low hum of conversation around the room. “That’s that, then.” The general glanced at Mallory, the two of them hesitating, simultaneously disoriented by the ease of this final phase, and then exchanging brief smiles.

“Hey.” Tony looked to his side, feeling the corners of his mouth turning upwards when Chan greeted him, looking pleased but not excessively so. Tony remained quiet for a second, looking at him and feeling suddenly impressed.

“You did that,” he told the other man, nodding towards the screen and prompting a bemused expression to replace jubilation, “You really did that.”

“Not just me,” Chan replied fairly, his grin returning almost teasingly. “But yeah, I suppose I did.” 

“And that’s why I never had a doubt in my mind,” Tony lied, smiling to give it away.

“Bullshit,” Chan murmured, shaking his head.

“Maybe,” Tony conceded, holding his arm out and tugging Chan close. “Now come here, you ridiculously clever nerd.”

“You always have to undermine it, huh?” Chan said, more than happy to never receive an answer.

From the front of the room, Adrian and Mark continued to stand amidst the underwhelming celebrations. Mark surveyed the room, his quietly victorious look disrupted for a moment by understated surprise. Adrian followed his eye line to diagnose the reason.

“That’s new,” the general said, watching as Chan said something, only to be answered with a kiss from Tony. Adrian sighed despairingly and shook his head as a fond, disbelieving laugh bubbled out of him.

“No, it really isn’t.”


	22. Spin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Footage from the control room finally returns to the right people.

_T-minus 2 Days to Hearing_

The control room felt almost normal, populated by the scientists who had post-landing data to collect and analyse. Captain Ali had entered the room with a salute to General Naird, passing a disc to one of the scientists as per Mallory’s instruction and leaning against Chan’s desk, continuing to keep up that impression of normality that had seen them through the return journey to earth.

Dr. Ranatunga began to access the relevant file, the room quiet as she worked. It had been some time since Tony had positioned himself at the back of the room, quietly trying to fade into the background. Somehow, Naird imagined he wouldn’t be jumping in to make a sarcastic remark any time soon.

The video appeared on the big screen, pixelated for a moment but slowly improving in quality until the freeze frame was completely visible. It looked like any normal day in the control room, busier than it had been for some time, the sense of urgency not yet apparent. Naird heard Ranatunga click to start the playback before he could deter her.

The figures on the screen came alive, turning their heads almost as one as the glass doors opened. Hearing his own voice directed at Kick was enough to make Mark move, reaching over the desk to pause the video. He turned to glance at Tony, pausing halfway to observe the unhappy frown on Chan’s face and then seeing a similar expression magnified on the other man’s.

“Everyone out,” he said sharply, turning back towards the screen as people began to file out. Angela squeezed Chan’s shoulder on her way past, even finding a weak smile to send in Tony’s direction as she left behind everyone else. Adrian’s hands were firmly buried in his pockets, his own eyes flickering between landmarks on the frame of footage in front of them; firstly looking at the visible tension in his own back then briefly seeing further, to Tony’s position at Grabaston’s side, discontent punctuating every movement.

Naird looked over his shoulder when he persuaded himself to turn away once more. It was too much like his meeting with Grabaston only this time the feelings of responsibility and incompetence were entirely self-inflicted. Erin had asked if _he’d_ be alright; it felt like she’d prioritised the wrong question.

Tony was still in the back corner, his stance mimicking Doctor Mallory’s but his head ducked to the floor. The end of a white bandage was just visible around his wrist as the rest of his hand remained hidden in his trouser pocket, what had been a constant reminder of the things Naird had allowed to happen only continuing to taunt the older man.

“Tony.” It was Adrian who broke the silence, surprising both Naird and Chan who had also stayed put. His voice was low, careful but obviously trying not to be condescending. Mark wasn’t sure Adrian had the capacity to ever sound _too_ sympathetic, usually struggling to accumulate the bare minimum consolation points for his attempts to be considered. “We need to be familiar with the tape for the hearing. You don’t have to watch.”

“If they play it at the hearing I will,” Tony replied, finally looking up. His eyes danced around the room, seeming to realise that everyone had left for the first time. “I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing me react badly.”

Mark couldn’t wait for all of this to be over. He wanted to be back in that constant state of helpless frustration around Tony, not desperately trying to block out what was clearly the other man’s way of saying he wanted to desensitise himself to an event that had hung like a dark cloud over the base for weeks.

“You don’t have to do that,” Chan said, his usually impassive demeanour faltering as his voice grew harsher but unsteady. “He’s fucked with you enough, Tony! He doesn’t get to dictate your choice over this as well.”

“It’s fine,” Tony replied more firmly, mustering a wavering smile for the other man. “I think I need to see it.”

“Are you okay staying back there?” Mark asked, hearing in his own voice the shift from general-tone to dad-tone as Erin always liked to tease him over. Tony nodded, hands still hidden but clenched judging from the tension in his arms.

“Yep,” he said shortly, the syllable clipped and drifting close to an imitation of his usual voice. Mark turned back to the screen, wishing for a moment that it wasn’t just the four of them so that taking the time to breathe wouldn’t stand out so obviously in the silent room.

The quality was better than he had been expecting which was both a blessing and a curse. He was relieved that the evidence would be undeniable at the hearing but it seemed unfair that this couldn’t be true without the four of them having to watch that memory play out in high definition.

He tried to focus on absorbing the details of the footage, determined to watch it as few times as possible, more for Tony’s sake than anything. And maybe his own; the idea of watching a beaten and bloodied Tony held up by Grabaston as he gloated filled him with something that was too close to dread for his liking.

_I would say he put up a fight but this really didn’t take all that much effort._

No level of restraint would stop Mark’s gaze moving back to the man stood in the shadows of the control room. He felt like he needed to say something, stopped by Adrian’s voice ringing out over the speakers.

_So that’s why it took you so long to get here._

Tony's mouth flickered at the corners lopsidedly, the battle between hurt and faint amusement blatant in his expression. Naird tried to concentrate again, too easily distracted by Chan’s tightly interlaced fingers and his eyes trained downwards, just at an angle where he could look like he was watching without actually seeing the screen. 

The general wondered how he hadn’t seen anything between the two of them for the many weeks Adrian had claimed it had been going on for. Even on the footage, Chan’s face was clear as day – there were too many parallels; the way his hands appeared almost knotted on the desk, how he refused to look over his shoulder at Grabaston for more than a second at a time.

_I don’t know how you pick them._

Kick's monologue continued as Naird tried to detach himself from the words, forcing them to crush together into indecipherable static. He didn’t need to glance over his shoulder to picture Tony which wasn’t a reassuring thought at all. Instead, he watched himself notice the allusions to a gun and hold his hands up peacefully. He couldn’t help but search for a way out but even with hindsight he was left frustratedly short of options.

“You went quietly,” Mallory murmured knowingly, barely needing to cast a glance in his direction to register his inner turmoil. Naird reached over to the computer keyboard to pause the video as he continued to speak. “You knew he was armed and acted to de-escalate the situation. That has to count for something, if Grabaston hasn’t already made himself look despicable enough without your help.” The anger in his voice was barely contained, a simmering rage that made every word feel like a burning drop of oil from a spitting pan and yet it was measured, always measured.

“He says he had direct orders from POTUS,” Mark pointed out, “Does that make me look bad? For ignoring them?” He cut himself off from asking anything else, feeling a twist of guilt in his gut that this was on his mind whilst Tony continued to confront the raw contents of the recording. The pressure only let up when Tony was the one to reply.

“If they see the whole thing, with what happened after he took over, you look like you made a decision to stop a war,” he murmured, taking a couple of hesitant steps towards them as he spoke. “It would make you popular with the public at least; especially a younger demographic. People don’t like this trigger-happy image of America that the rest of the world has. A general who seems to feel the same way is reassuring.” He seemed glad of the distraction, relaxing into talking about something he knew inside out.

“I don’t see how Grabaston can come out of this positively,” Chan agreed, “You only stood aside when the threat to the people in the room became too great to ignore in favour of remaining in control of the moon situation.”

“And no one got hurt as a result of your actions,” Adrian continued, “If Grabaston had succeeded with his plan, Tony would have been the first on a long list.” Mark breathed out a slow exhalation, nodding his head sharply and trying to let the attempts to reassure him wash over his head as if he’d never needed to hear them. Generals were meant to be headstrong and certain in their convictions. He still struggled to put aside his pride when taking comfort from two scientists and a social media manager telling him how he did his job right.

When the footage started up again, Naird watched his own hands get restrained, able to see this time that Tony had been pushed, not gently, behind the desk by one of the air men as this had happened. It was only when he was taken to join him that Adrian stopped the video once more.

“I think the rest speaks for itself,” he said firmly, “Grabaston stood by as the mission fell to pieces and then reinstated your position when he couldn’t see another way out.”

Naird was lost in thought, trying to imagine the version of him in the film standing in his place weeks later. He recalled the awkward, hesitant attempts he’d made to comfort Tony at the time and wondered if anything had changed. The person on the screen felt like a stranger and suddenly he thought he’d done himself a disservice.

Over the last few weeks, even if he hadn’t had a choice in the matter, he’d been forced into an alliance with the other three men in the room. He’d tried to juggle his role on the base with all of the other problems this had thrown up. Before everything, had he and Tony had an argument it might not have been patched up for weeks. They’d learnt to skate around each other on thin ice, getting by on short exchanges and eventual, mutual, certainly silent agreement to let go of whatever it was that had got them to that position. Nowadays, he couldn’t do anything without considering the reaction of not just Tony but Adrian and Chan as well.

So maybe his pride wasn’t hit so hard by accepting advice from two scientists and a social media manager.


	23. Take No Prisoners

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hearing begins. Mark has everything he needs to take down Grabaston but their chances rest on the panel asking the right questions.

Chan had already stopped him from habitually tapping his fingers over the file in his hands several times by the time General Naird appeared, weaving his way through the small crowd outside the chamber with Doctor Mallory in tow.

“Morning, sir,” Tony greeted, making an effort to sound normal despite the occasion and following the older man towards the main doors and passing him the folder as they walked. “I added the public engagement figures like you asked, a couple of up-to-date references for you to pull out if things get desperate and, most importantly, your big finish.” Naird’s eyebrows raised slightly, hearing the twinge of trepidation in Tony’s voice just rear its head.

They headed towards the front of the room where a table for three had been set up in front of the panel of representatives. The rest of the room held rows of chairs for everyone else.

“Big finish?” He glanced over at Tony, unable to get an answer from the other man before they were separating; Naird and Mallory taking their seats at the front as Chan and Tony joined the slowly growing audience.

“What was that?” Adrian leant over once they were seated, his own folder of notes placed to one side. Mark hummed uncertainly under his breath, flipping to the back page of Tony’s folder, his fingers freezing in place as he spied a sheet of familiar research. It had slipped his mind since the rush to successfully return the crew to Earth, especially since he’d strongly opposed the idea of using the knowledge Tony had acquired against Grabaston when there was such a high risk involved.

“What do you think?” He asked stiffly, feeling Adrian’s eyes following his own to read the page.

“Wait and see how it goes,” the other man replied calmly, casual as if they were discussing the weather, “If we’re not on the back foot, they’ll have no choice but to listen to it. As long as it’s taken seriously, he won’t be in a position to hurt Tony.”

“How do you like our odds?” Mark asked, nodding in agreement as he tucked the page back in place, trying to cast it from his mind. Adrian seemed happy to take his time answering, giving him chance to turn around, meeting Tony’s reliable gaze and exchanging a short nod with him. They had a long way to go before all of that would be relevant though and much more to prove.

“We’ve done the work,” Adrian replied wisely, “We rescued a group of people from the moon, we can prove that it was Kick who stranded them there. I’d say the balance is tipping in our favour.”

“That would be a first,” Mark said wistfully. Mallory snorted under his breath, fixing a more stern expression as General Grabaston approached the third chair.

“Good morning, gentlemen.” Kick’s tone was too upbeat, making his already punchable face all the more tempting. Naird resisted the urge to act rashly, soothing his agitation with the fantasy of wiping that smirk off of the other man’s face with the information tucked away in the folder beneath his hands. He tapped the top of the file as if to remind himself it was there and glanced over at the other general.

“Grabaston,” he greeted stiffly, hearing Adrian’s sigh through pursed lips serve as his own response.

“I do hope you won’t take it too hard when your pet project is taken off of your hands so soon after it starting,” Kick continued, either knowingly riling him up or truly awful at reading social cues. Naird did not have much hope for it being the latter, hearing the manipulation ooze from every word.

“You might consider trying to deflate that ego of yours, general,” Adrian said drily from Mark’s other side, “After all, the aim here is to win people over rather than bullying them into taking your side which is a difference you seem to have struggled with in the past.” Mark’s next exhalation didn’t quite hide his amusement, causing Grabaston’s eyes to flash with something close to anger.

“You know, once upon a time you’d have been part of Space Force’s move to the Air Force, Doctor Mallory,” he replied, instead of vocalising the thoughts that had left him with such a stormy expression on his face. “Unfortunately you seem to have been – compromised. There’s no room for traitors in the Air Force.”

“Which is why you welcomed Major Baxter back into your ranks with open arms,” Naird filled in sarcastically, raising an eyebrow in silent challenge when the other man’s face reddened further.

After this he turned back to his own notes as the room continued to fill behind them. The rather spontaneous date of the hearing and it’s largely toned down advertisement had only attracted an audience of mostly journalists; the _public_ aspect of the hearing seemingly lacking. There was little time to dwell on this before the important people entered the room, forcing Naird’s attention back to the arguments he needed to make to save his job and everyone else’s, the base and his new life in Colorado.

* * *

The pace of the hearing was lacking in repartee, frequently getting stuck on the minutiae of funding decisions and proposals, getting entangled in the endless details ad nauseam. Trapped in the audience, Chan more frequently found himself watching Tony tap his fingernails against the case of his phone impatiently rather than paying attention to the drawn out answers to simple questions. It wasn’t as if the representatives themselves gave away which way they were leaning with their own responses.

“-and our weather data satellite is currently in its late design phase,” Doctor Mallory was saying the next time Chan dragged his attention back to the front of the room, “It would be a time consuming process to hand this project over to an entirely new team of scientists as General Grabaston’s proposal would require us to do. Not to mention the financial loss suffered if the project were to be scrapped entirely. And from a scientific point of view-”

“I wasn’t exactly mad about the idea of having to watch that control room footage again but now I’m wishing they’d just get to it,” Tony leant over, even his whisper managing to sound bored. Chan smiled faintly at his tone, tilting his head closer to reply.

“Was it just me or were you expecting there to be a bit more-” he trailed off, not entirely sure what it was he’d been anticipating but certain that the display in front of them was not it.

“Action? Energy?” Tony finished for him, grinning lopsidedly for a moment, “A single sign of life?” Chan smothered a laugh with his hand, shaking his head and trying to concentrate once more.

“Now, the first manned mission that Space Force was responsible for was forced to return much earlier than expected, General Naird,” one of the representatives said, piquing Chan’s interest and making Tony’s head lift slightly in his peripheral vision. “Can you talk us through the intended role of that mission and why it did not succeed?”

There was a slight murmured disturbance between the journalists in the audience. With it being such a pivotal point in their plan, Chan had forgotten the Secretary of Defence’s request that they kept the failure of the mission under wraps. Clearly the representatives were keen to get the information out to the public, for better or for worse. At least it would allow Naird to steer the conversation towards the CCTV footage.

“The primary aim was to return American astronauts to the moon in order to establish a lunar colony. Going forward we would be using this as a base to extend the capabilities of our long-haul space travel program.”

“When forming Space Force the president said he hoped to achieve something like this by 2024,” the same representative interjected, “Why was the project accelerated so suddenly?”

Chan was distracted again by Tony wrinkling his nose discontentedly.

“What?”

“It’s just – an awkward question,” he replied quietly, eyes drifting back to Naird as he continued to explain distractedly. Whilst he couldn’t see, Chan smiled very slightly, not particularly accustomed to seeing Tony in his element. “If Naird says something unfavourable about POTUS he might just lose his job over that, regardless of the hearing outcome. But the reason the project happened much earlier than planned is because of China landing on the moon first and POTUS not being very happy about it.”

“Space Force, whilst currently focusing on scientific research, is also designed primarily to protect the United States from Space-based threats,” Naird was saying, “The decision was taken that it would be wise to prioritise the construction of the lunar base following the rapid progress made by other countries in recent months.”

“Was that good?” Chan asked curiously. Tony shrugged then thought for a moment.

“I don’t know how you’d answer it any better,” he said eventually, “He didn’t directly mention getting orders from POTUS which saves him from that side of things. It does shift the blame more towards Space Force though.”

“And why was the project cut short?” Another question that caused the general to pause before answering.

“The plans to land on the moon were disrupted slightly by the recent Chinese mission claiming an area on the moon which included our planned landing site,” Mark began, his tone growing noticeably reluctant as he continued to speak. “I was – advised to make a stand against this course of action-”

“General Grabaston?” One of the representatives interrupted, “You look like you want to add something.”

“Well, as a member of the meeting that General Naird is referencing,” Kick interjected slickly, his posture straightening further if that was even possible as he confidently spoke, “I would argue that the general was _ordered_ to make a stand against the claim made by the Chinese mission.”

“General Naird?”

“I believe that – it could have been interpreted…” Mark cut himself off, looking down at the table briefly and clearing his throat. Kick visibly took this action to mean that Mark was floundering, his own expression growing more smug. Mark looked back up at the panel of representatives and nodded slowly. “I made a judgement that following the order given to me would potentially cause an international issue that I believed could be avoided. Whilst we did land at the original site, I asked Captain Ali, commander of the crew, to disable the guns that had been stored away in the lunar habitat in case of emergencies.”

“You chose to remove the one form of defence the crew had after choosing to put them in a potentially dangerous situation?” A different representative asked, her bewilderment making Chan wince. They’d known this section of the hearing could swing in either direction, painfully aware that the conversation had to be steered towards Grabaston’s role if they hoped to win.

“If I might interject,” Adrian said, “Both our mission and China’s were entirely science oriented. There was no real need for there to be weapons in the base in the first place. Disabling them was a necessary precaution in order to prevent the potential conflict General Naird mentioned earlier.”

“But you can’t deny, General Naird, that you disobeyed orders and then took matters into your own hands to try and stop those orders from being carried out,” the representative pressed. From within the audience, Chan could feel the interest of the journalists who leant forwards in their seats. The sluggishness from earlier had evaporated; the story, if there was one, lay in the conversation that was playing out in front of them now.

“No, I cannot deny that,” Naird admitted stiffly, prompting Grabaston’s smirk to grow wider.

“Following this, if I understand correctly, General Grabaston, you were sent to the Space Force base,” another representative took over, “Can you describe your role in this mission?”

“Like he’s going to be honest,” Tony muttered under his breath.

“I was instructed to use reasonable force in order to take over from General Naird and put the orders he had ignored into effect,” Kick explained, unable to resist the chance to unnecessarily tarnish Mark’s name further. “I took control of the mission and, as you have heard today, quickly found out that the only tools of defence at our disposal had indeed been destroyed. I improvised a proportional response to the unreasonable claim made by the Chinese government to a region of the moon but upon returning to the lunar habitat, our crew found that it had been sabotaged. It seems clear to me that the Chinese crew responded as a result of General Naird’s decision to keep the same landing site, despite the tension it could cause. And that was how the crew got stranded.”

“Bullshit,” Tony whispered, surprising Chan with his measured volume, even as he turned to exercise his frustration, “It wasn’t a proportional response; what happened was his fault and he’s putting it all on Naird!”

“Not to mention how he glossed over the nature of his control-taking,” Chan agreed, shaking his head. After several days of being at the forefront of their efforts to win the hearing, he’d expected to be relieved to take a back seat. Landing the rocket had been his responsibility but even after all of that, he only felt frustrated that he could do nothing but helplessly watch now.

“General Naird, would you say this was an accurate summary of events?” The same member of the panel who had pushed the general to admit his insubordination asked. Mark’s shoulders rose and fell with a deep breath.

It was now or never.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the slight delay, I’ve struggled to get started with the hearing. That being said, it’s getting quite long and I thought I’d only need one more chapter to finish but maybe I need 2-3 which is good, I guess? I’m not ready to let go of this story yet XD


	24. Shape, Clear, Hold, Build

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hearing continues.

_“General Naird, would you say this was an accurate summary of events?”_

Chan couldn’t remember when Tony’s hand made its way into his own, nor when the simple feeling their palms pressing together became a firmer pressure, a need rather than a choice. It pulled him back to the medical bay on the base, the sharp scent of antiseptic biting at his nose as if the air that he was breathing came from back then. It still hurt, having to qualify that it was the second of two visits to the medical bay that prompted the memory, a painful reminder that Tony had been through enough after the first time but still got drawn in for round two. He’d held on tightly then; fingers gripping Chan’s as if he expected the scene around them to melt away and leave him lying on the dusty ground once more. Alone

Maybe the point where the pressure had returned came as soon as Naird had started speaking.

“I was alerted to General Grabaston’s presence on the base when he landed there unauthorised. I suspected that he would attempt to enact the orders I was against so I sent Duncan Tabner, Space Force security, to discover the nature of his visit. Whilst General Grabaston claimed to have used reasonable force, I would argue that the injuries sustained by my social media manager, Tony Scarapiducci suggest otherwise.”

Maybe Tony’s hand had clenched when Grabaston tried to argue otherwise.

“I have to say that is a serious claim to make without strong evidence. And of course, there’s always going to be a grey area when it comes to those sorts of orders. If a civilian were to get injured as you described, surely they would come forwards.”

Chan felt Tony stiffen as Kick spoke. The general seemed to relish in the safety of the knowledge that Naird couldn’t explain his lack of CCTV footage without admitting the base’s security was once bypassed whilst under his control, not if he wanted any chance of winning the hearing. Not to mention his dismissal of Tony’s injuries, every word spoken so meticulously as if he didn’t realise it was entirely because of his threats that his actions hadn’t been exposed any earlier.

Maybe Tony’s grip tightened further when Naird got another chance to retaliate. Maybe, rather than something desperate, it was hopeful; a squeeze to reassure the two of them, as if to say it was their turn to win for once.

“As the representatives will be aware, we successfully returned the crew from the moon to Earth two days ago. As per procedure, all communication with the control room was recorded on the rocket, some of which we managed to retrieve. Not only does it show the aforementioned injuries but also the way that General Grabaston used them to intimidate a room largely full of scientists who wanted no part in a war he seemed keen to start.”

Even from behind, Kick had failed to contain his surprise as Naird spoke, the visible smugness in his stature evaporating before he regained some control over his own façade. Chan stroked his thumb against Tony’s hand idly, eyes fixed on Grabaston – the one puzzle he couldn’t solve, the question without an answer, the man who seemed to believe he could still win this when opposed by undeniable evidence to the contrary.

“This is certainly a tape that we should review,” one of the representatives said, also sounding taken aback by the U-turn the hearing seemed to have taken. “Due to the nature of it, I believe it would be sensible to call a recess to allow the panel to watch the footage in private in order to ensure that sensitive information is not released into the public domain.”

Behind the generals and Doctor Mallory, the audience seemed to crawl back into motion, journalists who had been sat frozen suddenly taking advantage of the break to scribble notes furiously or reach for their phones, needing to inform the right people that there would be a story to tell after all.

* * *

Mark breathed a poorly contained sigh of relief as the last representative disappeared from the chamber, pinching the bridge of his nose between his index fingers and screwing his eyes closed tightly, trying to ward off the tired ache in his head.

The conditions of the hearing had quickly devolved into verbal warfare, a battlefield requiring far more tactics than he had naively imagined. Why he had thought that it would simply be a case of presenting facts, he didn’t know, especially not when he was facing an adversary like Kick. Kick, who had left the room swiftly as the recess began, not even staying behind to say something clever.

“Are you alright?” Mark didn’t expect Adrian’s softly spoken question, the shock in and of itself stirring him from his thoughts as he glanced at the other man and nodded unconvincingly. “This is all rather larger than I had anticipated.” Naird laughed drily, quietly pleased that he wasn’t the only one feeling out of his depth.

“I imagine no one expected _Space Force_ to cause so many issues,” he murmured eventually, encouraged by the wry uplift of Adrian’s mouth. He lowered his hands back to the desk, blinking away the low hum of fatigue a few more times and trying to regain his authoritative stance. Not that there seemed much point in keeping up pretences around Adrian anymore; it wasn’t as if the scientist had ever found his military attitude reassuring after all.

“To say I was almost falling asleep earlier this morning, things have got interesting surprisingly quickly,” Chan’s voice drew both of their attentions behind them, to where both he and Tony had claimed the closest seats on the front row. 

For the first time, Naird appreciated the effort that the two younger men seemed to go to in order to make the other feel better when they needed to. Like now, when Tony looked a little like he had seen a ghost, his face pale and hands growing red from the persistent pressure of his own fingers. He glanced over at Chan with an almost amused smile, switching his attention to Mark with a tighter lipped expression.

“It’s going to work,” Mark said again, making sure that his tone was quiet enough to be just for Tony and letting Chan and Adrian transition into a conversation of their own. Tony smiled slightly again, another flicker of humour crossing his face.

“It has to work,” he replied similarly, at least looking less resigned than he had the first time they’d had the same discussion. Mark tilted his head, conceding the point silently, not ready to agree out loud. It was a little like standing in the centre of a steadily growing crack, the whole ignoring the other possible outcome business. And every time someone else acknowledged the possibility of defeat, another hairline fracture diverted from the main fissure, weakening Mark’s resolve further. Then again, to consider failure was to consider losing his job, his new home, the people he worked with. It was too high a price but one that at least made the ground beneath his feet stubborn and unrelenting.

“It’s strange to think about them watching it,” Tony said again, eyes dropping to look more at the back of Mark’s chair than his face. “I hadn’t considered it happening like this.”

“It’s probably for the best,” Mark replied cautiously, always too wary of overstepping a line that was entirely of his own creation, “You’ve seen more than enough, Tony. You don’t need to watch a roomful of people experience that as well.”

“Maybe not,” Tony murmured thoughtfully.

“We’ve got the upper hand,” Mark tried again, hoping to see a glimmer of agreement on the other man’s face, however brief. What he received instead was a tired smile.

“I’ll believe that when we win,” Tony replied honestly, “No more twists and surprises. Just a verdict.” Mark was tempted to push further, maybe partially for himself, before he stopped. It was easy to miss the way Tony had said _when_ and not _if,_ but that small sign was enough to reassure the general. He might not have been a soldier but Tony was well-versed in the art of getting back on his feet after a setback by now.

* * *

The break ended after a long thirty minutes, punctuated by Tony and Chan returning to their seats and the return of Grabaston. Mark had half expected the other man to have got out of there somehow but if anything he seemed more confident upon his arrival, sitting back down and looking ready for the opinions of the panel.

The representatives took little time using their new information to attack every new angle, leaving Mark’s head spinning even when he wasn’t being asked.

“Did exploiting injuries you had caused fall under your definition of reasonable force?”

“Why was it that you gave up control so easily if you were concerned for the welfare of your crew?”

“Upon taking control you continued to pursue a violent response despite the lack of weaponry available to you. Did you not consider alternative means?”

“Do you think you put yourself in the best position to protect the people under your employment?”

“How can you defend your actions when they fall so clearly outside of the boundaries set by the orders you were given?”

Whilst Mark found himself able to justify his own actions with a firmness he hadn’t anticipated, Grabaston seemed a lot more shaky in his logic, justifying one thing by contradicting another.

“I made the decision that it was necessary to reach the control room before General Naird did any more damage to the reputation of this country. This left me with no choice but to use the power I had been granted and I believed that Naird would stand aside if he saw what damage his reckless behaviour was causing.”

“By the time General Grabaston reached us, we had disabled the guns available to the crew. I made a judgement that the safety of my science division was more pressingly threatened by the presence of the Air Force and chose to follow General Grabaston’s instructions to protect those in the immediate vicinity.”

“I had been given my orders to enact a proportionate response. Having discussed the possibilities at length with the Secretary of Defence, we had all agreed that a powerful stand had to be made. General Naird was not prepared to do that but I was.”

“Resisting General Grabaston’s attempts to take over was not going to put my employees in a safer position. At the time and to this day I couldn’t see an alternative that prevented anyone else from getting hurt.”

“It astounds me that I should be the one defending my actions when it is General Naird’s direct choice to ignore orders that caused everything we have discussed. Not to mention that it was his crew who needed rescuing from the moon, his missions that seem to fail more often than they succeed and his total inexperience as a four-star general which has led to so many of these situations.”

Despite his deflections, Mark could feel the turning of the tide in their favour. It was audible in the representatives’ disdain as they asked questions that had no logical answer and yet still received a paragraph in response. It was visible in their discomfort, having watched the CCTV footage. He wondered what they’d look like if they’d seen how Tony had got like that in the first place; if they even needed to see that to make a judgement of Kick’s character.

In the moments where he didn’t have to formulate answers of his own, he absorbed every scrap of evidence he could see, trying to convince the remaining doubt that pooled as nausea in his stomach that they might just get out of the hearing unscathed.


	25. A Weapon of Mass Destruction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hearing comes to an end. Mark makes one last decision.

It was easy to tell they were getting the upper hand when Grabaston’s jibes during the short breaks between questions got steadily less calculated. Even Naird had restrained himself from retorting, resigned to relying on Adrian’s silent approval each time he didn’t respond.

“Use it,” Adrian muttered eventually as the panel once again paused proceedings following another direct hit against Grabaston’s character, the other man’s retaliation having little effect on the overall attitude towards Naird. 

“Are you sure?” He asked hesitantly, fanning through the pages of Tony’s file and then resting his finger on the bottom sheet. Adrian nodded sagely and returned to his own notes.

“They’ll be all over me once you start using the puppy’s data,” Grabaston commented when Naird shifted the media folder to the top of his pile in preparation for the next section. He inhaled deeply, setting his eyes straight ahead.

“You might be rethinking that remark when you hear some of Tony’s research,” Adrian responded coolly, shocking Naird into turning to face him. He looked as fed up as Naird felt inside, but never lost that vindictive gleam in his eyes.

Like it had in the tape Naird had been made to watch, Grabaston’s face flickered with something that Mark had once seen as anger. Now it seemed closer to fear, a slip in the mask of his unflappable persona, the chink in his armour that Tony had somehow managed to find. Grabaston seemed to have no response for them, turning back to his own notes with a vindictive frown.

The hearing restarted once more, the tone once more shifting in favour of Mark and Adrian who had offered countless pieces of evidence, anecdotal or otherwise, to criticise Grabaston’s character, leaving the Air Force general with an insurmountable cliff to climb in order to win back the representatives who seemed to have mostly made up their mind.

“Myself and the other representatives feel that we may be able to offer a verdict at this point in the proceedings,” the representative who had largely led the hearing said, “To summarise our findings, we have concluded that a large portion of the blame for the failed lunar mission seems to lie with General Grabaston due to his involvement. In particular, the methods he chose to employ in order to take control of the Space Force control room have caused some level of concern and will need to be further investigated.

“However, pertaining to this inquiry, it is important to acknowledge the direct orders that were disobeyed by General Naird and the less than perfect track record of mission success Space Force has seen under his command. We would like to offer both generals the chance to add anything they think may be useful for our decision making process.”

Mark let Grabaston’s final attempt at defending his actions wash over him, hearing the general tone of his voice and knowing that the contents of his statement would appropriately match the snide, constantly slipping presentation of slickness. Kick, once heralded as a poster boy for progressing through the ranks in the armed forces, had suffered an irreparable blow to his reputation. One that Mark could guarantee with the final piece of evidence available to him.

What the representative had said about his own shortcomings rang true for the most part. He wondered, in the time he was allowed, if it would be best to attempt to justify his decisions once more, to explain why he would suddenly decide that direct orders were no longer something he followed blindly. It would be difficult to do so, considering that he hadn’t exactly wrapped his head around that decision that set everything off in the first place. He’d been the force that toppled the first domino but merely a spectator to the following carnage; the time and energy he’d expended on picking up the pieces ever since had distracted him from considering his first move after the fact.

“General Naird,” a representative’s voice interrupted his contemplation, “Do you have anything to add?”

Mark toyed with the cover of the file for a moment, sensing Adrian’s eyes on the side of his head and turning to receive the full extent of his encouraging expression. He felt one side of his mouth lift dejectedly in response, knowing that the scientist was trying to tell him to protect his own position, to let Grabaston face the consequences that were already sealed into his fate.

Running Space Force had never been his dream job but being a Four-Star General was something he’d worked towards for the best part of his career. If the decision to potentially let that fall by the wayside after such a short time had been connected to any other consequence, he might have prioritised himself but after everything, after what had happened to Tony…

“I don’t believe there is anything else I can add to further defend my own actions. I believe I have acted in the best interests of my employees, my soldiers and my country. When faced with complications, I have worked to rectify them whenever possible,” Mark said, “However, there is one last thing that I think should be addressed.” 

He opened Tony’s file to the last page, his finger catching momentarily on the page of popular culture references which he had ignored up to that moment; he skimmed the list, almost laughing at his own inability to understand the vast majority of them. The margin of the page was littered with doodles to accompany the text, the silly sheet of paper a perfect reminder of Tony’s unwavering character. 

He flicked back to the last sheet, pulling it out of the folder. It was the only choice he could make that would appropriately repay Tony.

* * *

“You could have defended yourself,” Adrian’s voice almost instantly started up as the representatives left to make their final decision. Mark smiled wryly at the implied _should have_ behind the other man’s tone. He was more surprised by the accusation behind Adrian’s statement, as if he was angry that Mark would throw away his career.

“This has been bigger than me for some time,” he replied simply, resting his clasped hands on top of the file that was a sheet lighter, the slight difference in physical weight feeling far more exponential on his conscience.

“And Space Force?” Adrian prompted, more resigned as if he’d expected Mark to have that opinion. 

“Will still exist without me,” Mark completed, finally looking him in the eye, “You’d still be there, getting on the nerves of whoever would take over.” Adrian looked petulant for a moment, almost as if he might say that getting on the nerves of someone who wasn’t Mark wouldn’t be so entertaining but instead he nodded in acceptance.

“Do you still want the job?” His next question proceeded a long pause, the conversation taking a new direction that Mark hadn’t anticipated. He considered it for some time.

“Yes,” he admitted, glancing down at his hands which made it easier to talk frankly, “I can’t steer the direction we take if I’m not in charge. Even though being in charge means I get asked to make decisions I don’t agree with.” 

Adrian didn’t need to reply for Mark to know that he agreed with that sentiment; after all, the chief scientist had never supported the idea of militarising space and yet he was sat at Naird’s side, fighting to retain control of the organisation designed to do just that. It reminded him of that phone call on the porch, the night before the return of the crew on the moon.

“I don’t need to agree with everything we do,” Mark continued, echoing Adrian’s words from that evening, “But I want to be in a position where I can do something about that.” Adrian accepted this with a knowing nod, his mouth returning to a frown midway to approaching a thin smile as the representatives reappeared. It seemed that their decision had not taken long.

“In light of the evidence presented here today,” the main representative said, “We have unanimously chosen to leave Space Force under the command of General Naird. We recognise that all new projects face issues in their infancy and hope that future assessments of this branch of the armed forces continue to show improvement.”

Mark could feel the own surprise on his face, shock leaving him deaf to the spattering of conversation this had prompted in the audience. Beside him, Adrian made no effort to tame the own surprise on his face, reliably honest in his own reaction.

Naird inexplicably found himself keen to see Chan and Tony, almost to assure himself that they too were happy with the decision. But one of the representatives called both him and Grabaston through to another room, no doubt to address the other issues that had come to light throughout the hearing, and Mark was forced to delay his plans.

* * *

The atrium outside of the chamber cleared slowly over time, journalists pausing to make further phone calls and looking entirely too self-congratulatory at hitting the jackpot considering the contents of the story they’d stumbled across. Some of them formed small groups to discuss what they’d heard, all of them eventually dispersing and leaving Tony, Chan and Adrian mostly alone.

Tony’s chin rested on the crown of Chan’s head, the two of them painting a picture of uneasy contentment that Adrian could wholeheartedly subscribe to. He couldn’t help but remain doubtful until the last minute; where he would have once accepted winning the hearing as a surprising victory, this had been replaced by a need to see the final nail hammered into Grabaston’s coffin.

Eventually, Mark appeared at the door of the chamber, crossing the hall with an inscrutable expression on his face. Keyed up by the suspense of not knowing the full outcome and loftily believing he should be able to easily read the general, Adrian found himself frustrated.

“Well?” He prompted, feeling hopeful when Mark’s mouth flickered amusedly at his own impatience.

“There will be a full enquiry into Grabaston’s behaviour on the _two_ days he made unauthorised visits to the base,” Mark said, turning to Tony, “And Tommy Scott’s story will be looked into.”

It was Tony’s previously hopeful expression breaking into a full display of relief, joy, accomplishment; every emotion that had only been present on his face in brief, unreliable flickers for so many weeks; that finally seemed to signal the end.

“Someone will take over at the Air Force for the time being,” Mark continued, his shoulders relaxing as the weight upon them was replaced by the helium balloon effect of satisfaction. “Grabaston is likely to get permanently suspended, as a minimum.”

“It’s over,” Tony summarised, the words sounding blissful in his mouth. Adrian smiled amusedly at Mark’s formal, stiff nod. Even in a moment of celebration the general was stuck in his ways.

“We still have our jobs,” Chan grinned, his eyes crinkling at the edges as he looked at Tony triumphantly.

“We still have our jobs,” Mark echoed, another flickering smile breaking through his façade.

There was a moment of silence, an exhalation after a breath that had lasted for almost two months. A final moment of calm that hadn’t been snatched between two different disasters, one that didn’t feel like an indulgence when their focus would be best directed elsewhere.

They could leave the building with the base intact, where they had entered under a cloud of uncertainty. What had started with Tony bracing himself in a doorway as the world spun around him ending with the four of them standing on far more solid ground; the last line of defence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, we’ve made it! This is the longest thing I have ever published and actually finished, especially in such a short time frame but honestly it has been entirely down to the lovely, lovely comments I’ve got (prepare for a bit of a ramble, I’m terrible at being concise and this 25 chapter thing that now exists proves that).
> 
> I’m going to indulge myself and be a bit over dramatic for a second but reading every single one of the comments I’ve got about this has made me smile and laugh (and maybe have a tiny little cry occasionally). I know this is a pretty small fandom and I have got very over attached to these characters but it’s nice to know that other people feel like that too. I’ve said this a lot in my replies but I have run out of ways to say thank you every time I get a comment which is incredibly frustrating because I want to just transmit how grateful I am through the screen!! So thank you for any comment or for just reading this and supporting me in my weird obsession with this weird show (and especially if you’ve been here the entire time, entertaining me with your comments on every chapter - you people know who you are :p ).
> 
> I will stop myself before I write a longer note than the chapter because no one wants to read that. However, I may have another idea for a multi-chapter thing that I imagine could get out of hand very quickly but also currently has a number of plot holes so I will carry on working on that. In the meantime, I am very open to taking some prompts and continuing to overpopulate this tag with my ramblings so feel free to leave a comment or you can shout at me on my very underused tumblr, curious-i-eye :)


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